The Law of House
by pgrabia
Summary: Formerly separate stories in series by same name now compiled into one chaptered story. As House and Wilson venture forth in new phase of their relationship life happens to complicate things. H/W slash, Warming: explicit sexuality,adult themes & language
1. Chapter 1 Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: This started as a series of short stories called "The Law of House" but after suggestions from readers I decided to compile them into one chaptered story called "The Law of House" for easier reading. Stories have only been changed to allow better flow from one chapter to another. The first seven 'chapters are up and the eighth will be up as soon as document manager stops screwing up =) **Warning**: H/W pre-slash/slash.

**Rated M** for explicit sexuality, adult themes and language. Reader discretion advised.

* * *

**Chapter One: Beyond a Reasonable Doubt**

On Monday afternoon, the fifteenth day of February, Dr. Gregory House sat in the office of his therapist, Dr. Darryl Nolan, during one of his regularly scheduled sessions. They both sat in leather upholstered chairs facing each other. House sat stiffly, looking exceedingly uncomfortable, something deeply agitating the diagnostician. He rapped his fingers anxiously on his armrest. Nolan sat relaxed, looking comfortable in his seat, one leg resting on the knee of the other and his hands folded calmly in front of him.

"Why don't you tell me what has you so anxious, Greg," the psychiatrist said smoothly. "I haven't seen you this way in quite some time. Is something wrong?"

House wasn't certain that he wanted to tell his therapist what was truly bothering, so incredibly personal it was. He knew he had to, but it wouldn't be easy, partly because he was afraid of what the psychiatrist would advise him to do about it. This was one of the most confusing and painful things ever to happen to him and the repercussions could break his heart.

"I don't know what to do," the diagnostician told him, shaking his head. "This is one of the worst things ever to happen to me and I'm at a loss what to do about it."

Nolan nodded. "Perhaps we can figure out a solution together. Tell me."

House met the psychiatrist's eyes for a brief moment and had to quickly look away again, to some unfocused spot on the back of the other man's chair just above his left shoulder. He found it much easier to talk about the difficult things if he didn't have to meet the other person's eyes.

"It started last Friday," the diagnostician began. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. "There was this inane fundraiser for the clinic that Cuddy planned. Since on Sunday it was Valentine's Day, a booth was set up in the hospital lobby where passers-by could purchase Chocolate heart Candy-Grams for their sweethearts in the hospital and volunteers from the clinic would come around to the appropriate rooms to deliver them. The proceeds from the sale went towards the Pre-natal Health program. For ten bucks you could buy a heart-shaped box of cheap chocolates with a love note attached.

"It was sickeningly saccharine and I was going to have nothing to do with it. I didn't have a sweetheart to send one to and I hadn't expected to receive one, either. However, during a differential with my team, one arrived, addressed to me. I received the usual razzing from the idiots who work for me, demanding that I read the card out loud. I told them to shut up and threw the box into the waste basket unopened."

"Why?" Nolan asked quizzically, spreading out his hands in front of him. "Someone thought enough of you to send a gift. Why was that a bad thing?"

House sighed. "Because I figured it was one of them playing a practical joke on me. 'Ha ha ha! We'll make fun of House by sending him a heart when everyone knows he's too much of a bastard to have someone send one to him for real'. Since it was true, I didn't feel like having it rubbed in my face.

"Anyway, Thirteen grabbed it out of the waste basket, insisting that I should at least open it. When I refused and demanded we get back to work, she opened the card anyway. Before I could snatch it out of her hand she read it aloud.

" ' 'To the most important person in my life,'' she read, grinning like a Cheshire cat. ' 'Thank you for making my life worth living.' There's no name for the sender. Looks like you have a secret admirer.'

" 'That admirer had better remain secret if he or she wants to keep this job,' I told the team. I was certain it was one of them.

" 'It's not one of us,' Chase insisted, and Taub and Thirteen chimed in their agreement. I looked over at Foreman. He gave me a look that told me I was out of my mind if I suspected him. I took the box and card away from Thirteen and threw it back in the garbage with a warning that this subject was closed. I thought it really was until later in the day.

"I was working on a paper I was preparing for JAMA when Wilson popped into my office on his way to the cafeteria for lunch and wanted to know if I wanted to join him. It was a stupid question since I always want to join him if for no other reason than to poach his French fries. When we got to the lobby, instead of heading in the direction of the cafeteria he kept walking towards the exit. I asked him what was going on, and he said he wanted to take me to lunch somewhere nice for a change. First of all, it was completely unpredictable and Wilson is a very predictable man. Secondly, I didn't have a jacket and it was lightly snowing outside. I mentioned that to Wilson, but he just shrugged and said I wouldn't need one. When we reached the doors, I saw his car sitting in the loading zone no more than three paces from us.

" 'Am I dying or something?' I asked him, completely mystified. He just chuckled and climbed into the driver's seat. I climbed in to shotgun position and stared at him in bewilderment as we drove away from the hospital.

" 'What are you staring at?' Wilson asked me with a smirk on his face.

" 'Who are you and what did you do with James Wilson?' I demanded trying to make light of the situation even though I was wondering what it was he was up to. Wilson laughed and told me that I was being paranoid and wanted to know what was wrong with him taking me to lunch because we were friends. I didn't know how to answer that, because there was nothing wrong with it, except for the funny feeling I had that something wasn't right.

"He took me to _Le Plaisir_."

"Isn't that one of the most expensive restaurants in Princeton?" Nolan asked, surprised.

"It's _the_ most expensive and the waiting time to get a reservation for a table at lunch is currently at four weeks. He had _planned_ this a month in advance. That's when I knew there was something wrong. I couldn't enjoy the food because I was waiting for the hammer to fall. Our conversation was normal until halfway through, when I couldn't take it anymore, and I demanded to know what was going on.

" 'There's nothing going on,' Wilson told me earnestly. 'I just got to thinking about the things in my life that I'm grateful for and one of them is my friendship with you. I realized that I had never really told you that before and decided that I should. That's all this is—it's my way of telling you that I'm grateful that you're my friend.'

"I wasn't convinced that was the real answer. He was withholding something from me. All sorts of strange and frightening scenarios of what it could be were spinning around in my head.

" 'Bull-shit,' I told him and then I asked, 'Are _you_ dying and this is your way of trying to break it to me gently?'

" 'Yes, Greg," Wilson replied, straight-face. 'I'm dying.'

"I just about lost it. Just as I was going to ask him what it was he'd been diagnosed with and demand to know why he hadn't come to me and given me a crack at it, he grinned that stupid grin he gets when he's pulled one over on me. I could have knocked him cold at that moment. He had no idea how scared I was."

Nolan nodded thoughtfully. "Did you tell him the impact his joke had on you?"

"I told him he was an asshole," House answered, frowning. Just recalling the event brought back echoes of the fear he had felt when Wilson had given a dubious friend a living organ donation. "He laughed and then sobered, giving me what I can only describe as a soulful look.

" 'I care about you, Greg. What is wrong with me trying to show you that once in a while?' he said to me. He sounded so sincere that I decided to let it go and accept it for what he said it was.

" 'I'm glad you're my friend, too,' I told him brusquely, trying not to sound stupid. I was able to relax a little more for the rest of our meal.

"On the drive back to the hospital he started a strange conversation that got me wondering again."

"What was the conversation about?" Nolan inquired. He appeared to be fascinated by the story his patient was telling him.

"He asked me where I figured my life would be ten years from now." House shook his head and exhaled loudly. "I told him that I didn't know and that I'm just trying to get to next week without falling on my ass and swallowing a handful of Vicodin with Scotch to wash it down. Ten years is a long time.

"Wilson got this pensive look on his face, like there was something he was struggling with and debating whether or not to say anything to me.

" 'I picture myself pretty much the way I am now,' he told me, staring straight out the windshield, not glancing, once in my direction. 'I've got it pretty good. There are a few things that I'd like to see change, but for the most part I'm generally happy.'

"I scoffed at that saying, 'You're telling me that ten years from now you still want to be womanless sharing a condo with a surly, sixty year old bastard leaving clothes lying around, messing up the kitchen and making enemies with the neighbors?'

"He looked at me, very seriously, and said, 'There are a hell of a lot of worse things that could happen to me.'

" 'Like what?' I asked, thinking that he was either crazy or he was pulling my leg.

" 'Like I could end up without you around to waste my time with,' he told me. He was silent for the rest of the drive and I just wanted the hell out of the Twilight Zone."

House grabbed the bottle of water on the table between therapist and patient, guzzling it down thirstily. He noticed the pensive expression Nolan wore and the fact that he hadn't spoken up with another question right away.

"Greg," the Psychiatrist said slowly, "What do you think James meant by what he said?"

The diagnostician pondered the question. He knew now what Wilson had meant but he was still having difficulty accepting it. Even thinking about it tortured him.

"I wasn't sure," House answered. "But things got a lot stranger. I spent the afternoon finishing my paper and going over some lab results on my patient with Chase. I didn't see or hear from Wilson until five o' clock came around and I headed to his office to see if he was ready to go home yet. His office door was wedged partially open because the heating system throughout the hospital was on the fritz again and it was hot as hell in there. He had his balcony door open which allowed a cross-breeze to occur. As I approached I could hear him talking with someone, but I didn't know who until I got closer. I figured that if it was confidential he would have shut his door, regardless of the heat. So I stood where he couldn't see me and listened in, hoping I'd hear something that would explain his strange behavior.

" He was talking with a woman and it didn't take me long to recognize the voice as Thirteen's. That was strange because he doesn't usually have much to do with her. I caught their conversation in the middle.

" '…So he asked you if you were dying?' Thirteen asked. 'Why would he ask that?'

" 'because he sensed something was wrong and figured that was just as good an explanation as any, I guess," Wilson replied. 'The entire meal I was sweating bullets. I wanted to tell him but I couldn't find the courage. Remy, I'm afraid that if I tell him the truth I'll ruin the most important relationship I've ever had.'

" 'You don't know that,' she told him. 'You never know how he may react. He's your best friend and everybody knows that you're his. He's not going to throw that baby out with the bath water. Wilson, he might even respond favorably.'

" 'I should just stop now and say nothing at all. I'd rather have things stay the way they are right now than risk losing him altogether.'

'Living in denial like that is no way to spend the rest of your life,' Thirteen argued. 'You're just as entitled as anyone else to express your true feelings and be free to be who you really are. Trust me, I know. When I was in high school I tried to deny the fact that I dreamt about making out with my girlfriends just as much as with the boys. I was terrified of anyone finding out my 'dirty little secret' and being ostracized. I spent my entire senior year miserable trying to pretend I was someone I wasn't. Don't make that same mistake and condemn yourself for the rest of your life.'

" 'What if I alienate House to the point that he wants nothing to do with me ever again? I think that would kill me! If you told me a year and a half ago that we would be having this conversation I would have laughed in your face. I've always been attracted to women. Never have I ever had the slightest urge towards men. It wasn't until House walked into my office with Cuddy literally holding him up that I realized just how much I loved him, and seeing him in such distress tore my heart apart. The entire time he was in Mayfield, all I dreamt of at night was holding him in my arms and promising that everything was going to be alright. When he was discharged and he moved in with me as a condition of his release, I was thrilled but I was also very troubled. Knowing that he was sleeping in the next room so near-by and not being able….' Wilson sighed heavily. 'When House came back ready to pursue a relationship with Cuddy, it hurt worse than anything. I found myself irrationally jealous and I began to take it out on both House and Cuddy. I acted distant with him, like I was too busy with my life to waste my time talking with him when the truth was I didn't want to talk to him because almost every conversation had to do with _her_. I was short tempered and rude with Cuddy at work because just seeing her reminded me of how much House wanted her…and not me. I found myself becoming aroused when he walked around in just his boxers in the morning. I've tried to hide it all from him because I'm terrified of his reaction if he finds out.'

"I had heard about as much as I could handle," House told Nolan softly. "I quietly went back to my office and sat in my recliner and tried not to think about what I had just heard but I couldn't stop. At first I thought it had to be some kind of joke and any moment Wilson was going to barge into my office and yell 'Gotcha!' After that came the anger. I was furious that he was betraying my trust, that he had been lying to me for years about who he really was. I was disgusted at the thought of him getting a hard on watching me get ready in the morning. Part of me wanted to march back to his office and beat the hell out of him for lusting after me, for being gay and not warning me. Underneath the anger, though, I was incredibly upset. There was a lot of self-pity, but I couldn't stop thinking about how sad _he_ had sounded when he was talking with Thirteen. He was heartbroken. He was in love with me and he was terrified that I would react exactly as I just had. I began to think about all of the ways he has been there for me over the years, about how much he means to me. I remembered how terrified I was that he would die when he donated half of his liver to that jerk who didn't really give a damn about him, or anyone else for that matter. I remembered thinking that if Wilson died, my life would be over, too. I came to the uncomfortable conclusion that what it all boiled down to was that…I…love him, too.

"Oh god, I'm so fucked up right now!" The diagnostician sat forward in his seat and bent over, hiding his face in both of his hands. He didn't know if he wanted to cry or laugh at how preposterous it all was. Everything he had thought was real and true was now in question. He didn't even know if he really knew who and what _he_ was. Nausea hit him with waves and he felt like he might vomit. His entire body was trembling and he wondered if this is what it felt like when a person had a nervous breakdown.

Nolan spoke to him very softly and carefully. "What are you feeling right now, Greg? Can you describe it to me?"

House shook his head, his hands hiding the fact that he was crying and he knew that if he spoke Nolan would know.

"Greg, I know that right now you are feeling very overwhelmed by your emotions. You have every right to feel that way. This is a _safe place_ for you to express your emotions, to take a look at them for what they are and figure out what they mean. If you try to repress them they'll only end up coming out explosively when you aren't in a safe place, and that could be very dangerous. I want you to give yourself permission to let them out right here and right now."

That was all the diagnostician needed to hear. The dam broke and all of his anger and fear and sadness burst out of him. He sobbed loudly, gasping for breath between painful heaves. Groans that came from the pit of his soul pour forth up from his gut and out of his mouth. He pounded the armrests of his chair in fury, his whole body rocked back and forth. He grieved so hard for so long that when he began to calm down, all of his energy spent, he felt lightheaded and disoriented. For a few minutes he wasn't certain if he knew where he was. Nolan instructed him to begin to take slow, deep breaths and center himself as he had learned how to do in prior sessions. Gradually House began to relax, his mind started to clear, his heart stopped beating rapidly and loudly in his ears.

When Nolan felt the time was right, he asked him, "Greg, I want you to tell me what you are thinking about at this very moment. What are the most immediate thoughts you're having?"

House lifted his head and wiped the tears off of his face at first with his hands and then with tissues from the box Nolan offered to him.

"I don't want to lose my best friend," he answered, his voice hoarse from his groaning. "I love him, and I don't know what that _means_. I don't know if I'm in love with him or not. I've never had sexual thoughts and feelings for _any_ man, but I know I love Wilson more than I have ever loved _anyone_, man or woman, in my life. I'm so confused, and all I want to do right now is get drunk and stoned and forget about _all _of this."

There was silence for about fifteen seconds but to House it seemed to last for an eternity. The silence only left him alone with the cacophony playing over and over again in his head. He wanted there to be external noise to distract him. He wanted to be told what to do because he just didn't have an answer for himself.

"I know, Greg," Nolan told him gently. "I know. But we both know that once you come down from that high and you sober up you'll only be in a far worse situation than you already are. We have to come up with a healthier way of answering your questions and surviving this crisis."

House looked at the therapist and shook his head in utter bewilderment. "_How_? How do I do that?"

"I think it's obvious that our first step is to define exactly how you feel about James," Nolan told him. "You have to allow yourself to be completely honest with yourself, even if the things you discover are absolutely the opposite of what you expect or think are right. This is not about how you wish you feel or how you're supposed to feel or not even about how you've always felt before. It's about raw honesty, about right here and right now and no bull-shit. Can you do that?"

House considered his question very carefully. It was possible that whatever it was that he would discover might terrify him, turn him upside down and sideways, but if it meant being truly happy, he would do it; he _had_ to.

"Yes," the diagnostician answered with certainty.

"Okay," Nolan said, nodding. "Let's begin."

* * *

When House arrived home he found Wilson in the kitchen, preparing their dinner.

"What can I do to help?"

Wilson looked up at him with an unreadable expression. "You can slice those carrots." He nodded to a bowl of the orange roots sitting on the counter by the sink. House went over and got them; the carrots were already washed and peeled and were ready to be cut. He washed his hands thoroughly with soap and hot water at the sink, found a chef's knife and a cutting board and set to work. It was silent for a few minutes except for the sound of chopping; Wilson was finely chopping shallots.

"What are we making?" House asked, absolutely needing to break the silence. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Shepherd's Pie," Wilson answered simply.

"Really?" the diagnostician asked, smiling in pleasant surprise. "We get comfort food instead of rabbit food?"

Wilson looked askance at him. "Are you complaining?"

"Nope," was the quick reply. "I'm so stoked I'll even eat a salad if you make one."

"You _are_ stoked," Wilson said sarcastically, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah," House said because he couldn't think of anything else. The atmosphere around them sucked. There wasn't the camaraderie, the sarcasm, the ease that he had grown so accustomed to. He couldn't imagine living the rest of his life with this kind of tension between them.

"Wilson," House said, setting the knife down. "I think we should talk, now."

The oncologist refused to meet his eyes, continuing his work. "We can talk over dinner. Let's finish this first--." He stopped in mid-sentence when House put his hand over his to stop the chopping.

"This can wait. Talking can't." the older man told the younger. Wilson looked up at House at last and met his gaze.

"Alright. We'll talk."

"First of all," House said with a smirk, "Let's put all of the knives out of reach."

Wilson smiled at that and handed his knife over. The older man took them and put them on the counter next to the sink and then joined Wilson at the island again.

House took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself and then spoke first. "I _know_, Wilson. I overheard your conversation with Thirteen last Friday. Before you get angry, I was coming to see if you were ready to go home. I wasn't trying to spy on you."

Wilson looked away. House could tell that he was angry but there was something else. Was it shame?

"I…was going to tell you," the oncologist said quietly, every muscle in his face tensed up. "I just had to get the courage. That's why I was talking with Thirteen."

"Because she would understand," the older man commented understandingly. Wilson nodded curtly.

"I'm sorry that I've been so unapproachable in the past that you didn't feel safe enough to tell me," House told him.

Wilson looked at him quizzically. "House, this is more than just telling you that I hate it when you leave your underwear on the bathroom floor. I never expected you to hear what I had to tell you and not react. You haven't been any more unapproachable than I have."

"Well I'm here right now and I'm prepared to listen," House told him. "I want you to tell me what you've needed to tell me. You're my best friend, Wilson. I don't want you to be afraid to tell me how you feel."

The younger man searched House's face to see if there was any sign of mockery or duplicity but he found none because there wasn't any to find. House's heart was pounding so hard he couldn't understand how the other man couldn't hear it. _Speak, Wilson, please speak_.

"I…I'm in love with you…Greg," the oncologist said at last. House could tell that it was taking every ounce of courage his friend had to do it. "I don't know how, or exactly when it happened. It knocked me off of my feet and it took me a long time to acknowledge it. I've never thought of myself as gay or bisexual. I've never had these kinds of feelings for another man in my entire life. But the more that I accepted the fact that I not only loved you but I was _in_ love with you, the other…feelings began to make sense. They felt…right. I would probably never feel this way again with any other man. I know that you don't understand, and that's alright, because I still don't fully understand myself."

House listened to his words, trying hard to remain impassive so his friend wouldn't withdraw and stop talking. When Wilson was quiet, he said, "I think what you're saying is that it's not so much that you are in love with me as a man as you are in love with me as Greg, no matter what my gender may be. Am I right?"

Wilson thought about that, looking at the diagnostician in wonder.

"Yes," the oncologist said, beginning to nod slowly. "I think so. All I know for sure is that I can't imagine living without you in my life. Likewise, I can't imagine loving you the way I do and never being able to express it, to show you. These last few months have been nearly unbearable. That's when I knew I had to tell you and risk losing you, your friendship and respect--because I can't live the lie anymore."

There were unshed tears in Wilson's eyes and it killed House to see them there. When he thought about how long his friend had suffered with this secret it broke him. The younger man deserved so much better that that. House wanted him to have better than that.

He saw Wilson set his jaw in preparation for the painful response he anticipated from him. House took a few moments to gather his thoughts and find the right words to say.

"I won't lie to you and tell you that my first reaction wasn't anger and rage," House began carefully, establishing and then maintaining eye contact. "But that wasn't all I felt. I felt afraid that I was going to lose the most important person in the world to me and end up all alone. I thought my whole world was crumbling down around me and I spent quite a bit of time feeling sorry for myself—surprise, surprise! After fear, I felt sad. I began to mourn you and our friendship. Perhaps the worst of it, however, was the confusion over how this had impacted my feelings for you. I was ready today to throw away months of sobriety just to stop feeling as miserable as I did. Nolan and I spent a double session trying to work through it all to get to the bottom of how I really felt and what I genuinely wanted to see happen."

"God, House," Wilson said with a pained grimace on his face, "I never meant for you to have you go through all of that! I'm so sorry."

House exhaled through his mouth to release some of the tension that had been building up inside of him. "I know that. I don't blame you. In fact, I'm kind of glad, now. It made me think through a lot of things that I've been avoiding. Here's what I discovered: I love you so much that I can't risk losing you. If wanting to spend the rest of my life with you, share my life with you, wanting you to be happy and secure and being willing to sacrifice my own pride means that I'm in love with you…well, then, I am."

"House--!" Wilson spoke up with a look of astonishment on his face but the older man cut him off.

"You're going to have to be patient with me," he warned the younger man. "This is uncharted territory for me and to be honest with you, I don't know how ready I am for a lot of physical intimacy yet. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I'm in love with James Wilson, who just happens to be a man. And I need this to be a private thing right now while I get everything worked out, but if you're willing to let me take this slowly…I want to be…yours."

House forced himself to keep eye contact. He had never felt this vulnerable and afraid before, but at the same time, he knew that it was honest and he didn't have to go through this all alone. It felt right. The expression of Wilson's face was priceless: his eyes were wide with astonishment but sparkled with hope. His mouth was still agape but a smile was on the cusp of emerging.

The older man smiled and rolled his eyes. "You're going to catch flies if you don't close your mouth."

Wilson closed his mouth and smiled, saying, "You never cease to amaze me!"

House smiled almost bashfully. Taking a deep breath, he stepped around the island, leaned in and wrapped his arms around Wilson, pulling him close and holding on tight. When Wilson wrapped his arms around him in return, House allowed himself to rest in the embrace and admit to himself that it felt good. He pulled away slightly and leaned his face in to place a soft, tentative kiss on his best friend's lips. Wilson kissed back, just as gently; House felt a twinge of arousal that at first startled him but then he allowed himself to feel it without analyzing and judging. He loved James; that's what mattered.

"How about we finish dinner now?" Wilson said, pulling away. His face was wet and he went to brush his tears away but House beat him to it, touching his face softly.

"Sounds good!" the diagnostician said with a sheepish grin. "I'm starved."

As they returned to work House said, "Happy Belated Valentine's Day, James."

Wilson smiled with no reply, but he didn't have to; House knew.


	2. Chapter 2 Direct Evidence

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N:

This was once the separate short story "Direct Evidence" and is now Chapter Two of the compilation "The Law of House". **Warning**: H/W slash.

**Rated M** for language, child abuse and sexuality.

* * *

**Chapter Two--Direct Evidence**

_Greg looked up at Tommy as the blond five year old ran up to him proudly carrying his new birthday present: a brand new dump truck with an operational bucket that actually tipped up and emptied its load by the moving of a small lever. It was painted bright yellow with large black tires. It was beautiful, the same truck Greg had seen in the store window and had pointed out to his mother as the only thing he wanted for his birthday two months before._

_Instead of the truck the shy boy with medium chestnut colored hair and giant blue eyes had dreamt about, he received a toy military rifle with bonus silver-painted, blunt-ended bayonet. His dad told him that it was the best one money could buy, which, for a Marine flyboy, was an extravagant gift on his pay. Greg had pretended that it was the toy of his dreams, at least until his father had left the house the next morning for training exercises. Once Dad was gone, he had taken the rifle out to the backyard of their base married men's accommodations and broke the silver bayonet off in one well placed stomp; using it, Greg used the bayonet piece to dig the hole behind the shed where he buried the accursed pieces of plastic, hoping that no one would ever notice._

_His father had noticed. Three days after the burial Greg was reading quietly in his bedroom where he couldn't get in the way while his mother prepared dinner and provoke anyone's anger. He heard the back door slam, harder than usual, and heavy, determined footsteps approach his room. The six-year-old rose quickly to his feet, faced the door and retreated as far away from it as he could before he hit the wall behind him. He stood straight and tall, his hands straight at his sides, at attention. He knew the drill. His brilliant blue eyes, so soft and soulful, stared straight ahead at some infinite point in space and time and set his jaw._

_The bedroom door opened suddenly with such force that it slammed into the wall behind it, overwhelming the protective door stop and leaving a round, door knob-sized ding in the cheap plaster. All Greg wanted to do was run and hide. He knew that the discipline his father would mete out for this infraction would be brutal. His six-year-old body trembled but he couldn't show fear. Fear was for sissies and little girls. Lt. John House's son was going to grow up to be a man's man, hard as steel, even if it meant beating him into it. Greg knew such beatings all too well._

_Greg's father held up the mangled, dirt-encrusted toy rifle as he glared down with eyes the color of ice cold steel at his little boy. The child could hear his mother in the hallway, just out of sight, murmuring unintelligibly to his father, but the Marine didn't pay any attention to her._

_"What is this?" Dad yelled at him. _

_"M-my rifle, Sir!" Greg told him, his eyes tearing up. No, No! The child thought desperately. I cannot cry!_

_"What did you do with it?" Dad demanded._

_For the briefest moment, Greg thought about lying, but he immediately dismissed any such insanity. His father knew the truth and lying would only make the punishment he faced just that much more…severe._

_"I b-buried i-it, S-sir!" Greg answered, his voice quavering. The mist became tears in his eyes. The six-year-old tried to blink them away but they wouldn't go. His heart beat so fast and so hard in his chest that it hurt._

_"Why?" John House bellowed, holding the toy up as if he were about to beat his son over the head with it._

_Now the tears fell down his otherwise impassive face. Greg knew that he had no answer that would ever make his dad happy, that would ever turn away the discipline._

_"I asked you a question, boy!" his father yelled again. "Do you think money grows on trees?"_

_"N-no, Sir!"_

_"How ungrateful a piece of shit are you, Boy?"_

_Greg fought the sudden rush of anger that always accompanied the terror he felt just before the hammer fell. _

_"V-Very, Sir!" the six-year-old answered, shaking almost uncontrollably now._

_"What was that?" Dad yelled again; forcing the boy degrade himself over and over again was John House's favorite pastime. _

_With the tears now came the inevitable sobs. "I'm v-very ungrateful, Sir!"_

_"Are you crying like a baby, Boy? Are you?" John House was screaming now, his face as red as a beet, spittle flying from his mouth. "Let's just see what happens to crying ungrateful sissies!"_

_The natural instinct to duck had been long driven out of the six-year-old so when his dad raised the rifle and then sent it crashing into the side of Greg's face like a baseball bat he didn't flinch beforehand. The impact sent the boy to the floor. Pain seared through Greg's head, temporarily blinding him. He reached up to where the rifle had made contact and felt sticky moisture. He pulled his hand back to see the blood, not that it was the first time he had ever seen it, and so much of it._

_"You want to bury things?" Dad continued to rant. "O.K. We'll bury things!"_

_Greg felt himself being lifted off of the floor by the scruff of his neck by strong, pain-inducing hands, hands taught how to kill. He was half-pushed, half-drug out to the backyard behind the shed and thrown violently down with all of his father's force into the upturned earth._

_"Dig!" John House ordered, standing over the boy._

_Greg looked around him but there was nothing to use to dig with._

_"W-with what-t, S-Sir?"_

_His dad bent down until his face was only inches from the young boy's and then yelled, "With your fucking hands, you little piece of shit!"_

_Greg didn't even consider arguing. Using just his fingers and hands he tore away at the sod, breaking his fingernails, tearing at his flesh. He dug and dug, scooping the rocky earth away, splinters and small rocks nicking and tearing at his flesh until it bled and became encrusted with the blood-cake that formed. The hole kept getting bigger and deeper and the six-year-old was crying from the pain of his mangled hands but his father wouldn't let him stop. An hour passed, and then two, without a moment of rest for the child. When exhaustion began to take over and Greg began to slow down his father would punch him in the head with his fist. A couple of times the blows dazed him and he would nearly pass out. When that happened, his father would turn on the ice-cold water of the garden hose and soak him with it to wake him up and get him digging again. This torture lasted until it was nearly dark._

_The hole that Greg dug was approximately five feet long, two feet wide, and eighteen to twenty inches deep._

_"S-Sir," Greg croaked as he half-sat, half-laid on the ground next to the hole, too exhausted to move and too dehydrated to think straight. "W-what are w-we going to bury?"_

_He looked up in the twilight to see the coldest, most ruthless smile he had ever seen._

_"You," Dad said._

_Before the boy had the chance to so much as scream his Marine Corps father picked him up and laid him on his back in the hole. Primal fear, the instinct for self-preservation kicked in and Greg began to kick and scream, cry, flail and beg, but none of it did anything to prevent his father from burying him in the cold, dark earth until every inch of his body was covered save for a circle with a diameter of about three- to four inches where his nose and mouth had been left exposed to allow for him to breathe. His ears were covered—even his eyes. The dirt was so heavy that Greg could barely move his ribcage enough to breathe. He was blind, deaf, paralyzed and cold. _

_Evening fell. His father left him there like that for the night. For the first hour Greg screamed and cried in terror, that is, until his voice gave out. He had long since lost control of both his bladder and bowels. He could feel the movement of insects and bugs in the dirt around his skin. It was cold, so very cold. Panic destroyed any sense of time passage and orientation._

_It began to rain, softly at first, but then harder. Water dripped into his nostrils, poured into his mouth. He could barely keep up swallowing quickly enough to give him the opportunity to breathe. He was drowning. He was drowning and going to die in his very own grave that he dug for himself…!_

House woke with a start, screaming and flailing and coughing. His entire body was drenched with sweat and his heart raced dangerously for a fifty year old man. He was nearly hyperventilating, the panic still overwhelming him. At first he had no idea when and where he was and then he heard the sound of an old movie on the TV and saw the dim light given off by the lamp on the table beside him. He was lying on the sofa, and he was in the condo that he shared with Wilson….

Wilson. House realized that he had fallen asleep on the sofa watching TV with his best friend. The oncologist had been curled up beside him sleeping contentedly in his arms. He now sat next to him, blinking sleepily, a concerned frown on his face. He was stroking the older man's hair, his bearded face and was murmuring something gentle and soothing.

The diagnostician began to calm down. His heart rate returned to a safer level and his breathing became slower and deeper. He was alright. He wasn't buried alive. He wasn't drowning in the rain. He was safe on the sofa, curled up with the person he loved, safe and warm.

He began to remember what he had been doing before he fell asleep. He'd come home from seeing Nolan earlier that afternoon. He'd told James that he was in love with him. He'd kissed him, and had enjoyed it. They'd had dinner and talked about the new phase of their relationship that began that night while cuddling on the couch in front of the TV. Neither one of them had paid much attention to what was on. They were too intent on the newness of each other, allowing themselves to just experience the nearness of the other in ways they had never known before. It hadn't been overtly sexual, just holding each other, caressing, talking, and getting comfortable to the feeling of contact between each other's bodies. They had kissed, joked about how they were suddenly both virgins again when it came to being man with man. There had been some timidity, some awkwardness, but they took comfort in the fact that they would be facing this monumental change together.

House had feared that he would be unable to relax with the physicality of their relationship but was amazed with how comfortable he felt by being held by a man. House had discovered the long buried arousal and desire for Wilson that he had never allowed himself to even fleetingly consider before. Both of them had become at ease with each other enough to fall asleep in each other's arms.

Then the nightmare had come. The long repressed memory suddenly had emerged from the darkest shadows of House's psyche and for the life of him, he couldn't understand why. Why, when things seemed to finally be making sense, when he was finally allowing himself to give and feel with the love of his life, was it coming out now?

"Hey," Wilson whispered, caressing House's face lovingly. "Shh. It's okay. It was just a dream. It's alright, Greg. I'm here, you're not alone. Do you want to talk about it?"

House shook his head. It was bad enough that he'd had to live it. The last thing he wanted to do was have to _relive_ it again and again forty-five years later.

"No," he murmured, "I want you to help me forget it."

Wilson smiled knowingly, his eyes shining in excitement. Being careful not to hurt his partner's leg, he slid his bare chest up against the older man's like a caress and put his mouth on House's, kissing him passionately; House reciprocated, probing with his tongue into the younger man's mouth, wrapping it around his. He felt himself harden, felt his partner harden against him. It drove him wild, his breathing quickening. He found the button to Wilson's trousers and fumbled with it, carefully lowered the zipper. His partner helped him remove the pants and under shorts, their passion causing them to behave frenzied. Wilson returned the favor and they entangled each other's nude bodies. Wilson's hand moved to House's genitals and began to pleasure him.

The diagnostician gasped, "Oh god, James!"

Wilson's breath roared loudly in his ears. "I love you, Greg. Oh god, I _need_ you!"

The oncologist went down on him. House hung his head back, his eyes glazing over, his eyelids hooded, a look of rapture on his face. As the tension built, he arched his back and moaned in pleasure, unable to control his verbal responses. Never had he experienced anything quite like it before. In the back of his mind he knew it was because he loved the one he was with more than any other person in his entire life and that made the difference. When he came he found himself giggling and crying all at once. He had never cried before, not with Stacy, not with anyone and yet with Wilson the catharsis was so much more than physical.

Wilson returned to entwine himself with his lover, concerned. "W-what's wrong? Greg, talk to me."

"_Nothing_." House began to laugh, gently brushing aside a stray strand of hair off of the younger man's forehead. "I…I love you!"

Relief flooded Wilson's handsome face. Gratefully House pleasured the man he loved and afterwards they clung to each other, sleeping lightly, waking briefly to kiss the other, to whisper something loving and reassuring.

"Let's go to bed," Wilson said sleepily.

House figured that was an excellent idea. Together they walked hand in hand past what was and would never again be his bedroom to what used to be Wilson's alone. They climbed into the bed and held each other under the warmth of the covers.

"You know what's great about this?" House murmured just before he fell asleep.

"There's something more?" Wilson replied, his head on the older man's chest.

House chuckled softly. "No whining for pillow talk."

The oncologist laughed, and they both soon fell back to sleep.

House stared through the glass at his young patient sleeping in the hospital room with his strikingly blue eyes. The five year old boy named Kenny had been transferred from a hospital just outside of Atlantic City when doctors there couldn't determine what his wide range of symptoms had in common. He had been at death's door and had crashed once while under House's team's care. He came in with a spiking fever, hallucinations, drowsiness, headache, blurred vision, low B.P., confusion, fainting spells, anxiety, paleness, bradycardia, nausea and vomiting, upper abdominal pain on his left side, watery, bloody diarrhea and weakness. His team had gone through the gambit of theories as to what it could be: migraine headache, aseptic meningitis, encephalitis, E. coli infection, gastritis, drug overdose, intussusception, gastroenteritis, intestinal obstruction, food poisoning and a ruptured spleen (because of the presence of contusions and bruising all over the abdomen, supposedly from falling forward onto the handlebars of his bike).

It turned out to be a combination, not unusual. The boy had incurred a small rupture of his spleen which had accounted for the left-sided abdominal pain and rigidity and low blood pressure which had caused the symptoms of bradycardia, confusion, blurred vision and fainting spells. That had been repaired surgically without having to perform a splenectomy. The second problem was explained after the child's stomach contents were examined: he had an infection caused by _Clostridium perfingens_, a bacteria found in soil contaminated with animal feces. It was for this reason that House stood outside the boy's ICU room, watching him sleep while a respirator helped his little body to breathe. Kenny would survive, but to what he would have to go back to was the question. The diagnostician was determined to influence the answer.

House quietly entered the room and slid the door shut silently. He moved to the side of the boy's bed and sat in the chair that had been pulled up close. After taking a quick look around to be certain he wasn't being watched, he reached over and gently brushed a few strands of hair out of the boy's sleeping eyes and then cupped his cheek. Kenny looked angelic in spite of the intrusive tube that stuck out of his mouth and was attached to modern technology. Most of those who knew the irascible doctor believed him to be a child-hater; that just wasn't so. He didn't hate children, he feared for them, and that fear reminded him of the reasons why he feared, things that came too close for comfort. Thus he avoided children to avoid the fear.

It had been his nightmare the night before that had answered the question as to what the second cause of the boy's symptoms was.

Gently gripping the five-year-old's shoulder, House shook him softly. The little boy's green eyes opened slowly and he stared up at the doctor sleepily.

"Hi," House said quietly. "I'm Dr. House. My team and I have been trying to make you better, and you're going to be okay. Don't try to talk. There's a nasty tube down your throat to help you breathe and I can't take it out yet."

Kenny nodded slightly, his eyes staring at him with a listlessness that came from being critically ill.

"I think I know what happened to you, Kenny," the diagnostician said. "But I need to know for sure. I'm going to ask you a few questions. Don't try to answer them using your voice, okay? If the answer is yes, nod your head up and down, and if it's no, shake your head from side to side, okay? Move your head just a little so it doesn't hurt your throat. Do you understand?"

A small nod was the answer. House allowed himself a small smile.

"Good," he told the boy. "Kenny, did you hurt yourself on your bike?"

Kenny shook his head no.

_Didn't think so_, House thought grimly. "Did somebody else hurt your tummy?"

A nod.

"Was it Daddy?"

A shake.

"Mommy?"

A nod. The heart monitor showed a slight increase in the child's heart rate, but nothing significantly so. House felt safe to move on.

"Did Mommy punch you in the tummy?"

Kenny nodded. His eyes looked misty. House hated having to do this to the boy. He took Kenny's hand in his. It was so tiny.

"Kenny, do you feel like eating stuff that people don't usually eat?" House asked. "Stuff like paper or sand or dirt?"

There was a brief pause before the five-year-old nodded.

_Pica_, House acknowledged silently. Among institutionalized populations of children the prevalence of Pica, the persistent eating of non-nutritive substances like paper, dirt and paint, was somewhere between four to twenty-six percent; the prevalence among the non-institutionalized child population was much more difficult to estimate. It was considered to be a mental disorder rather than physical but the actual cause was up for debate. Pica was dangerous when the eating of the non-nutritive substances interfered with the eating and digestion of nutritive foods, threatened the integrity of the gastrointestinal tract or the substances eaten like paint or dirt contaminated with animal feces carried with them toxic or infectious agents that cause disease and other complications.1 The good news was behavioral therapy was quite effective at treating Pica.

"Right before you became sick, did you eat dirt or sand?"

Kenny nodded.

"Did you eat sand from your sand box?" House asked, hoping to narrow down the actual substance consumed.

A shake.

"Was it dirt, say, from your mom's garden or flower bed?"

A nod. House sighed, nodding. It made sense—many a gardener swore by the adding of natural fertilizers like steer, sheep or fowl manure to the soil in their gardens to boost growth and fruitfulness. Most commercially prepared manure products were sterilized before being packaged and sold, but not all.

"Did you eat a lot?"

The boy shook his head no. House frowned in surprise. The contents of the boy's stomach, which had been pumped after he was brought into hospital as a preventative treatment for possible poisoning, had contained a sizable amount of soil, more than a couple of mouthfuls.

"You had lots in your stomach," House told him gently, not wanting to frighten the child but to let him know that the doctor knew about the dirt so lying about it was purposeless. "Are you sure you didn't eat lots?"

The boy shook his head again, but House figured the boy was still telling him that he hadn't eaten a lot. That was unexpected and House had to think about that for a minute or two. As he did, he stared at Kenny's face, looking for any indication that he was lying. It was then that House noticed it—the small cuts on and the slight purpling of the boy's lips. At a quick glance those signs looked like chapping and mild cyanosis, but if one looked more closely, as the diagnostician was now doing, it was clear to see that it was not chapping and the purplish color was mottling, a kind of bruising, not the blueness associated with a lack of oxygen in the blood and tissues.

The diagnostician closed his eyes for a moment, disgust and anger filling him. Damn that Nolan! On the psychiatrist's insistence House had been opening himself up to situations and emotions he never would have before rehab. Some of those emotions totally sucked shit. He kept his tone of voice mild and friendly. "Did someone force you to eat a lot of dirt?"

Kenny nodded. A couple of tears fell from his eyes and his heart rate accelerated considerably. House squeezed the boy's hand gently and brushed the tears off of his cheeks in an effort to calm him and slow his heart rate again. It only worked minimally.

"Kenny," House asked him. "Did your mommy catch you eating a little bit of dirt?"

He nodded yes.

"Did she get angry?"

Yes.

House took a deep breath, keeping a closer eye on the heart monitor now. Did he continue to question the five-year-old and risk elevating his heart-rate even higher, or drop it for now? He decided to proceed cautiously. He only had a couple more questions left and he wanted to know the answers sooner rather than later, for the boy's sake.

"Kenny," the diagnostician told the child softly, "I know this is scary to talk about. I know you feel confused and sad—and it's okay. I need you to try to relax, okay? I only have two more questions to ask and then you can go back to sleep."

The five-year-old didn't move, but House still held his gaze. It was good enough.

"Did mommy get angry and then force you to eat more dirt because she was angry?"

The child nodded after a moment of hesitation. House nodded without satisfaction, and petted the boy's hair reassuringly. The heart monitor showed no appreciable change. _Good_.

"Here's my last question," the diagnostician assured him. "Did she shove it in your mouth and make you swallow?"

There was no nod or shake of the head but Kenny began to cry, and by doing so began to choke on the air tube in his throat. House began to rub the child's back soothingly, trying to calm him and stop the choking; Kenny's O₂ saturation was too low to remove the tube.

"Shh," House said gently. "Shh. It's alright. It's alright. I won't ask any more questions, okay? You did a very good job, Kenny. I've very proud of you…you've been very brave. I know…I know it hurts but it's going to be okay. Kenny, now that I know what happened, I won't let it happen again. Do you understand? I won't let your mommy or anyone else hurt you like that again." Even though House knew how deeply he was committing himself when he said the following, he said it anyway. "_I promise_."

The five-year-old's sobs began to subside and with them so did the choking and panic. His large green eyes looked up trustingly into the diagnostician's. House smiled genuinely at him, brushing away the child's tears away.

He heard a female clearing her voice from the direction of the door. House looked up suddenly to see Thirteen standing there, looking a little sheepish. House was annoyed that she hadn't announced herself before entering the room and listening in on him. He pulled his hand back from Kenny's face but remained holding the child's hand because he had a vice-grip on the diagnostician's thumb.

House looked back to Kenny and winked. "I've got to talk to Dr. Hadley. I want you to close your eyes and go to sleep now, okay?"

Kenny nodded obediently and shut his eyes. He loosened his grip and House gently let go of the tiny hand, laying it to rest at the boy's side; the older doctor rose slowly with his cane and met Thirteen at the door. He nodded out of the room, indicating he wanted to speak to her outside. He led the way and she followed.

"Walk with me," he told her, limping out of ICU and towards the elevator. She matched his pace at his side.

"Knocking would be nice," House told her bitingly, not looking at her.

"Sorry," she told him. "I didn't want to disturb you."

"So you decided to listen in, instead," her boss responded with a frown. "How much did you hear?"

Thirteen shrugged. "Pretty much all of it." She paused a beat. "You shouldn't have promised him that."

House looked sideways at her. She was probably right, but he was curious to know why she thought so. "Why not?"

"Because you can't guarantee you will be able to keep your promise," Thirteen told him bluntly. "You can report to CPS that you suspect that Kenny is being abused, and if they have the manpower, they'll investigate. If they don't, he'll end up right back at home. Even if an investigation is carried out and your accusation is backed up, all that will happen is Kenny will end up part of the system until or unless his mother fights the charges and wins or her family requests and obtains custody of him. Whether he's with his mom or the system, his chances of being abused again are sickeningly high. Once Kenny leaves the hospital, his fate is out of your hands."

They reached the elevator. House punched the down button and turned to face the woman.

"Then I suppose I'll have to keep him in the hospital until I can make certain I _can_ keep my promise."

Thirteen looked at him dubiously. "I don't know how you intend to do that," she told him. "In fact, I don't want to know. I just hope you don't let that little boy down like everybody else in his life has."

The elevator arrived and they waited for it to empty before entering. Once the door was closed they resumed their conversation.

"I won't," House told her with certainty.

"Now I really don't want to know what you're scheming." Thirteen told him with a shake of her head. "You've had abused kids as patients before and you never treated them the way I just watched you treat Kenny. Why is he so special? Why do you care about what's going to happen to him when he's discharged?"

The last thing House wanted to do just then was to give her the honest answer. Instead he answered with a sneer, "I like little fair-eyed, blond haired boys; I have a soft-spot for Aryans. Go spread that on the hospital grapevine."

Thirteen sighed and decided to drop the subject.

After a couple of seconds of silence, House asked. "So why did you really seek me out in ICU?" He knew, of course, but he planned on playing it cool. You don't raise before a bet is placed.

"I was curious if you found out who sent you the chocolates last Friday," She answered, smiling. "By the way, I retrieved them from the garbage and plan on giving them to Kenny when he's eating solid foods again."

"Good idea," House said approvingly. The elevator came to a stop and the doctors disembarked, heading in the direction of the diagnostician's office. "And yes, I found out."

He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Thirteen was watching him expectantly, pretending like she didn't know. Apparently she liked playing games, too.

"So?" she asked, trying to sound casual. "Who was it?"

House resisted the urge to smirk and thus give himself away. "I have it on good authority it was that new Pedes nurse, the blonde with the large--."

"House!" Thirteen cut him off, feigning offence.

"I was going to say hands," he told her straight-faced, entering his office and heading to his desk to sit down. "Why, what did you think I was going to say? Thirteen, I'm _shocked_!"

"I don't think anyone or anything is capable of shocking you," she told him sarcastically. She moved up to stand next to his desk but didn't sit in the chair at hand. "Are you certain it was _her_?" she pressed.

Obviously Thirteen hadn't spoken to Wilson yet that morning so hadn't been informed of what had occurred between the oncologist and him the night before; Good, he thought, _very good_.

House picked up his favorite fuzzy ball from its stand on the top of his desk and began to bounce it. "I'm positive. Wilson told me, said he saw her. You're not jealous, are you? She _is_ pretty sexy."

"She is," Thirteen agreed, sounding disappointed. "I was just expecting it to have been from someone…else. Never mind," she said quickly.

"Don't worry," House said to her, smirking. "She's not my type. She's all _yours_."

Thirteen ignored the verbal elbow to her ribs. "What exactly _is_ your type, House?"

He reclined back in his desk chair and began to throw the ball up towards the ceiling instead. "I have a liking for tall brunettes, myself. Why? Do you know of any you want to set me up with?"

Just then the door to his office opened and Wilson stuck his head inside as he knocked. House caught the ball and sat up expectantly.

"Oh," the oncologist said when he saw that Thirteen was there. "Sorry. I'll come back--."

"No need," she told Wilson before he could back out. "I was just leaving." She headed out of the door as Wilson stepped in. House caught the look they exchanged as they passed.

Once Thirteen was gone, Wilson asked, "Does she know about--?"

"Not from me," House replied. "I thought I'd let you fill her in on the gossip over tea."

"Funny," Wilson retorted drily.

"I thought so," the diagnostician told his lover, putting the ball back on its stand. He rose from his chair and limped around the desk to face the younger man. After taking a quick look for onlookers, House leaned over and kissed Wilson, lingering a moment. Despite his surprised expression, the younger man smiled.

"Ready for lunch?" House asked him.

"That's why I'm here," Wilson told him, following him out of the office. "The special at the cafeteria today is braised beef ribs."

House looked sideways at the oncologist deviously. "Actually, I'm more in the mood for a hot dog, myself."

1 From the current edition of The Handbook of Clinical Child Psychology.


	3. Chapter 3 Reasonable Suspicion

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: This was originally the third short story in the series "The Law Of House" that has now been compiled into one chapter story "The Law of House".**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated M** for language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

* * *

**Chapter Three--Reasonable Suspicion**

Dr. Lisa Cuddy didn't bother to knock when she barged into the office of PPTH's prize diagnostician carrying a case file in her hand. She entered to see Gregory House perched on the edge of his desk facing the door and her head of Oncology, Dr. James Wilson was standing in front of him, facing away from her, his left hand rubbing the back of his neck and staring down at his feet. Both doctors looked uncomfortable at being walked in on; their faces were flushed.

_Great_, the Dean of Medicine thought to herself, _I just walked in on an argument._ _House is sure to be cooperative now—_not_._

"House, I just received word that you've refused to sign off on Ms. Baker's request to have her son transferred to a hospital closer to their home in Northfield. He's been stable for nearly a week now! What's going on?"

House looked at the hospital's administrator angrily, "Next time _knock_ before you just barge in!" he told her in no uncertain terms. "I'm busy right now. You can rant at me about this later—I'll even make it easy on you and barge into _your_ office for it! Go away!"

Cuddy was used to being yelled at by the irascible middle-aged doctor but this time he was more than annoyed at her mere presence—he was upset. Very upset. Wilson hadn't even turned around to face her yet. There was something wrong and it was more than just House trying to avoid a confrontation with her. It was _her_ hospital. She was the boss and she would damn well barge into his office whenever she felt like it, particularly when the diagnostician was being a pain in her ass—which was approximately ninety percent of the time, especially since he had found out she was in a relationship with Lucas Douglas.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked suspiciously, looking from House to Wilson and back again. "James? Can you at least acknowledge me, please?"

She saw House look up at the oncologist and shrug almost imperceptibly. After a moment longer, the younger of the two men turned around slowly. As soon as she saw his face she gasped and hurried up to him in concern. Wilson's right eye was blackened and swollen shut. His jaw was also a purplish black and his lower lip was split and bleeding down his chin and onto his expensive dress shirt, which had been torn open to expose more bruising on his chest. His grey suit was dirty, torn and tattered.

"My God! What happened to you?" she asked, wide-eyed, before turning to glare at House.

The older man realized the implication of her stare and grew defensive. "Don't look at _me_!" he shouted indignantly. "_I_ wouldn't do that to him!"

Cuddy believed him. There was a strained quality to his voice she had only heard once or twice before, when he was in great duress, perhaps on the verge of tears and fighting it with all of his might. She looked back to Wilson.

"He's right, Lisa," the oncologist told her, appearing uncomfortable at the attention she was giving his face. She was studying his lip, her fingers barely brushing it as they moved up to his eye. "House didn't do this. In fact he's been trying to convince me to go to the ER."

"Who did this to you?" she demanded.

"Cuddy," House warned but Wilson stayed the rest of his friend's sentence by raising his hand.

"It's alright House. It's her hospital, she needs to be told."

"Are you sure?" House asked him softly, his brow furrowing in concern. There was more compassion in the older man's eyes than she had seen in a very long time, which only made Cuddy all the more anxious.

"Yeah," Wilson told him, his voice equally soft, "Unless….?"

"_I'm_ not worried," House told him. "Whatever yo_u_ want."

The Dean of Medicine was confused by their guarded language and simply wanted to know what had happened to one of her department heads and friend.

"Would somebody please tell me what's going on?"Cuddy asked again in exasperation. She couldn't stand to see him continue to bleed. She went into the adjoining conference room long enough to bring back a few napkins from by the coffee maker. Wilson stopped her when she went to dab at his mouth, smiled weakly in appreciation and took the napkins from her, sopping up some of the blood on his own.

Wilson moved over to House's couch to sit down. He did so slowly and stiffly, grimacing the entire way. She joined him on the couch and took his free hand in her own.

"I was jumped by a couple of guys in the parking lot," he told her, avoiding her eyes. "I ran out because I left a file I needed in my car. They came up to me, began to harass me. I told them to get lost and mind their own business and that's when they jumped me. I'm not much of a fighter but I can defend myself when it's one on one--two on one, not so much. After beating the shit out of me, they left me lying on the ground and took off. When I was able to get up, I came here."

"_Here_?" Cuddy echoed. "Why didn't you go to the ER right away?"

When Wilson didn't answer right away, House did so for him saying, "He was embarrassed." Usually there would have been a note of disdain or disgust in the diagnostician's voice, but this time there wasn't.

"Why?" Cuddy asked, frowning. "You're not the first person to be mugged, James. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. Besides, a formal examination has to be carried out for the police report--."

"There won't be a police report," Wilson told her firmly, still not meeting her gaze.

"Anytime a mugging victim is brought in to the ER we're required to fill out a police report," The Dean of Medicine reminded him.

"That's why I'm not going to the ER," the oncologist insisted. "Look, it happened, it's over. They didn't even take my wallet, okay? Black eyes heal—I don't see any need to create a big fuss over nothing! It looks worse than it is."

"We don't know that," House told him sternly. "We can't be certain that they didn't hurt you seriously without running some tests, taking some x-rays. You got kicked repeatedly in your gut! You could have internal injuries, hemorrhaging--!"

"He's right!" Cuddy told Wilson equally as sternly. She gently touched his face and turned it so he had to look her in the eyes. "Your pallid, you're sweating lightly, your lip needs to be stitched and we won't know if any serious injury was done to your eye until we can examine it. Stop being proud and come with us to the ER right now!"

"No!" Wilson protested angrily and jumped to his feet. Just as quickly as he was up, he was down again, grabbing his abdomen and groaning in agony. Before he hit the couch again, House was up and at his side amazingly quickly for a man with a disabled leg. The diagnostician wrapped one arm across his friend's shoulders while touching his cheek gently with his hand. The tenderness of the touch wasn't lost on Cuddy.

"James, easy!" he murmured. House looked up at Cuddy. "Call the ER and tell them we're on our way down and I'll grab a wheelchair." To Wilson she heard him whisper, "Please, don't fight this."

Cuddy didn't argue or hesitate and was up and on the phone to the Emergency Room.

House left Wilson's side to run to the nearest nursing unit for the chair, nearly running with his cane. He was back right away with it, parking it next to Wilson and locking the brakes.

Cuddy helped lift the oncologist into the wheelchair. The way the younger man groaned with pain scared her. She glanced at House. His brilliant blue eyes were clouded with fear. He strapped Wilson in, just to be safe. Hooking his cane onto the back of the seat, House began to push the chair out of the office, using it for balance and support. The Dean of Medicine offered to take over but the only response she received was a death glare from the diagnostician so she backed off and walked beside the chair instead.

Wilson was looking bad, very bad. He was slumped in his seat; he appeared terribly pale, his skin was clammy, and his breathing seemed to be quick and shallow, as if he were in the early stages of a panic attack. He seemed confused, occasionally asking along the way where they were taking him or where he was. All of these were signs that his blood pressure was falling quickly. A falling BP and abdominal pain almost certainly meant internal bleeding. From the look on House's face, he knew it as well; the older man looked like he was going to be sick.

By the time they reached the ER, Wilson was nearly unconscious. House pushed him to the head of the lineup of patients to be treated. Seeing Cuddy, the triage nurse asked no questions and opened the door into the treatment area for them to go right on through. Staffers were waiting for them, leading them to a treatment room where carefully Wilson was lifted out of the chair and onto the waiting examination bed. They set to work on the oncologist, wasting no time. House was right in there, eager to help but his concern was so great that he seemed to be lost and in the way. Cuddy immediately went to him, wrapped an arm around his back and tried to guide him out of the way and off to the side. To her amazement and dismay he didn't put up much of a fight. She had never seen him so overwhelmed in an emergency medical setting before.

"It's going to be okay," she told House comfortingly, wondering if he even heard her. She led him to the nearest chair and ordered him to sit down. The diagnostician, usually resistant to orders and other signs of authority, didn't argue with her, seeming almost relieved to have someone else take control for once. It was so unlike the man that it literally chilled her to the bone.

Silently they watched as the ER Attending quickly assessed Wilson while one of his residents acted to secure his airway and intubated him. It was an organized chaos around their patient but this was par for the course for these professionals whose specialty was treating the critically ill and victims of severe physical trauma of every kind.

Cuddy's heart was beating hard in her chest. She still didn't understand what had really happened to the Chief of Oncology or why both Wilson and House had seemed to be so…reticent to go into details with her. It was like they shared a forbidden secret that no one could find out unless it was absolutely necessary, and she didn't like secrets, particularly when it involved her hospital.

She squatted next to House's chair and placed a comforting hand on one of his, squeezing gently.

"You haven't told me everything," she murmured only loudly enough for the diagnostician to hear her. "What really happened to Wilson? What aren't you telling me?"

"Not now," House whispered, never taking his eyes off of the work going on around his friend.

"Yes," Cuddy insisted quietly, "_now_. Damnit, House, I'm not asking as your boss, I'm asking as his _friend_."

House hesitated a few moments, debating with himself whether or not to answer. When he did, he said, "Let's step a little further away from all these ears, but not out of sight."

Cuddy agreed. House rose from the chair and limped a few feet further away from the action and she followed.

"He wasn't mugged," the diagnostician told her, still keeping his voice low.

"What?" she reacted in surprise. "But I thought Wilson said--?"

"Wilson said that he was jumped, not mugged. You made the assumption that it was a mugging."

"Then why was he jumped?" Cuddy demanded, watching House's face carefully for any clue as to what he was truly thinking or, God forbid, even feeling. He usually kept whatever emotions he did possess deeply hidden beneath a façade of indifference but on very rare occasions he sometimes slipped up and allowed the truth to sneak out.

"Because some genetic throw-backs didn't like something they saw us do," House nearly growled in anger that wasn't directed at her, she knew, "so they decided they'd express their displeasure with their fists and feet. They picked on him when he was alone, I guess because I have the reputation around here of being the fighter and he's known as the good-natured pacifist who'd be easier to bully."

"I don't understand," Cuddy admitted, still very confused. "He was attacked by someone who works here at the hospital? Who? What did you two do?"

House paused a heartbeat and then met her gaze. His eyes were cold but she had seen them like that before. They were his "don't you dare say a wrong word or else" eyes and even she knew better than to ignore them. He then turned his gaze back to the activity in the trauma bay when he answered.

"We were kissing."

Cuddy lost the ability to talk—or think—for that matter. Her jaw dropped and her stomach flipped. Never had she suspected that House and Wilson, best friends for thirteen plus years, were anything more than just that: best friends.

Or, had she? She had never fully understood the connection the two men had shared through thick and thin. No matter what one did to the other, no matter what happened, they always ended up as close—if not closer—than ever. Heaven knew they had experienced many crises to their relationship over the years—Wilson's frustration with House just after the infarction that took half of the diagnostician's thigh and left him with chronic pain and long-term depression, when he nearly gave up on everything, especially his own recovery and return to real life; House's frustration with Wilson's string of marriages that usually ended up interfering with their friendship until the marriages failed; House's legal troubles with Detective Tritter and the rift that was formed when the cop blackmailed Wilson to make a deal with the D.A. in order to avoid jail time and lift the seizure of his financial accounts for abetting House with prescription fraud ( for which she wasn't all that innocent herself); Amber's unfortunate death due to a bus crash that may or may not have happened if House hadn't been drinking and called Wilson for a ride home, getting Amber involved instead; and Wilson's grief and difficulty in coming to terms with and forgiving House for what happened. There was also Wilson's rejection of House following her death which had driven the diagnostician to hire Lucas Douglas to track the oncologist's movements just to keep in touch with what he was doing and how he was coping.

She had noticed that during House's hospitalization in the asylum Wilson had behaved like a lost puppy, not knowing what to do with himself with his friend no longer around. He had been moody, and, yes, even depressed. Cuddy had also noticed how much closer the twosome had become following House's release from hospital and his moving in with Wilson to prevent the older doctor from falling back into old habits and relapsing; likewise there had been the nearly constant vigil House had kept at his best friend's bedside following Wilson's questionable living donation of a portion of his liver to a patient and during his recovery.

Yet, House's blunt confession of romantic behavior between the two men took her completely by surprise. Why-- Because they had hid it all so well? Or was it because she hadn't been paying close enough attention to what was happening under her own nose? Likewise, why did she care? She had cut short any romantic involvement between House and her when she chose to pursue a more stable and sensible relationship with Lucas instead. It was none of her business, really, and yet….

And yet she still had no idea how to respond to House's confession but still felt she had to say something; she decided to open her mouth and insert her foot by saying, "I've heard of rebound but turning gay is absolutely ridiculous, House!"

House turned his head to glare at her and the depth of the fury she saw in them frightened her. She hadn't just crossed the line—she had marched an army over it.

"That's right," House said softly, menacingly, "being dumped by Lisa Cuddy was devastating enough to not only turn me into a homosexual but my friend, who had to be goaded into dating you, into one as well. Because _doing you_ is the ultimate privilege any red-blooded American heterosexual man could ever be given and not being blessed with your pussy would turn any man off of every other woman on earth forever! Yeah, it's _all_ because of _you_. Keep believing that. Or maybe—_just maybe_—a sudden reminder of your fickleness and duplicity was the greatest gift I ever could have received and I dodged one giant cosmic bullet! Regardless of which is true, why don't you take your revolving vagina, your trophy baby and your domesticated moron of a boy-toy and _fuck off_!"

Cuddy recoiled from his verbal assault. Tears stung her eyes but they weren't tears of pain or regret—they were tears of anger and humiliation. How dare he say such vile and demeaning things to her after all of the second chances she had given him and all the ways she had saved his drug-addicted ass in the past? That was in addition to the fact that no matter what had taken place in their personal life she was still his boss and signed his paycheck and deserved to be treated with some goddamned respect!

"I'm going to forget what just happened here," she told him, barely restraining her rage, "and chalk it up to you being out of your mind with fear to be stupid enough to talk to me like that when I could fire your ass right here and now and have security drag your crippled body off of hospital property—but don't you _ever_ speak to me like that again! Do you understand me?"

House didn't flinch an iota at her threat. "No, _you_ remember it and you remember this well, _Dr_. Cuddy. Your little comment that earned you what I said could be taken as sexual harassment and I could have _your _ass fired, sue you and this hospital and destroy your credibility to the point where you won't be able to get a job managing a drug store! Then we'll both be out of a job, but I won't be the one smelling like a skunk. Don't you threaten or mock me or Wilson ever again! Don't look so surprised—setting boundaries was lesson number three in rehab. If you want me to respect your boundaries you're going to damned well start respecting _mine_!"

Cuddy felt the sting of fear against the skin of her heart and knew that it was time to back off. House had been aggressive, obnoxious and disgusting before but never had he ever drawn the line like he had just now. If it hadn't been laced with a threat she may have even been impressed. Not this time. However, he did have a distinct point. She spoke out of spite and it could come back to bite her if she didn't back off.

The Dean of Medicine spun on her ridiculously high heels and began to storm away.

"Cuddy!" House shouted after her, not pausing to see if she would turn around to look. "Kenneth Baker was beaten in the stomach and force fed fecal-tainted soil until no more would fit in his stomach by his mother because he has Pica and ate a mouthful of the dirt on his own. His splenic rupture was caused by mommy's fists, not some damned handlebars. I already contacted CPS on my own. If you overrule me and approve his transfer you're sending him back to hell. I _charted_ it all in that file folder you're holding. Next time _read_ all of it _before_ you barge into my office without knocking!"

She didn't acknowledge him but Cuddy heard every word.

* * *

Down below him, beyond the glass, James Wilson underwent emergency surgery to repair two major tears in his ascending and transverse colon which had caused massive internal bleeding. House stood in the observation room above the operating theater, watching every single thing done by the surgeons and their team as they worked meticulously but efficiently to save his lover's life. Once again he stood watching and waiting in barely controlled panic as the most important person in the world to him was fighting to survive. A few months ago he had worried through the operation to remove a portion of Wilson's liver to donate to a supposed friend whom House had absolutely no use for. Now he watched in a cold sweat as the surgical team repaired injuries that never should have been incurred but for the savage ignorance and bigotry of two assholes who had the audacity to call themselves healers.

Wilson had been lucky that it was just his colon that had bled. It could have been his recovering liver, still not functioning at full capacity, or his spleen ruptured open, filling his abdomen with blood in a matter of minutes.

Even though logic said that it wasn't House's fault in any way, shape or form, he fell back on long established, self-destructive patterns and blamed himself. If only he hadn't been so impulsive by trying to sneak a kiss from Wilson at lunch; if he had only kept his damned hands to himself until they were in the safety of their Loft, alone; if only he had followed Wilson everywhere he went all day long to make certain than some unexpected assailants wouldn't catch him all alone and gang up on him to beat and kick the snot out of him…maybe he would be okay.

House knew that wasn't true even as he thought it. Both he and Wilson had discussed one night, while lying in bed after making love, the dangers that unfortunately came with loving someone in a relationship that didn't correspond to what some control freak Nazi wannabes figured was "right" or "socially acceptable". Who the hell were these people who believed that they alone had the right to decide what was an acceptable pairing and way of loving someone and what wasn't?

Both doctors had joked about same-sex pairings in the past while trying to define themselves by what other people believed it meant to be a real man because it was…easy, and acceptable, almost and most importantly because it had allowed them a way of avoiding assessing their own sexuality honestly and acceptingly. It had seemed harmless, a joke. They had never meant any real harm by it. House had considered himself quite open-minded and accepting; after all, he mocked everyone equally. Now he felt guilty. Bigotry thrived in such so-called jokes.

The diagnostician didn't look up when he heard the door to the room open.

"Hello, Greg."

House turned his head to the familiar voice. Darryl Nolan stood there. The psychiatrist joined him at the window.

"When I called and left the message," House said, turning his head back to the window, "I didn't expect you to drive all the way to Princeton."

"You called to cancel our appointment because the man you love, my friend, is undergoing emergency surgery," the African-American psychiatrist told him calmly. "The tone of your voice concerned me. I wanted to come. What injuries did he acquire?"

House told him. Nolan shook his head in dismay.

"Are you up to talking about it?"

The diagnostician shrugged. "Do I have a choice?"

"You always have a choice," Nolan reminded him, "but I think it may be helpful if you did."

House was silent for a moment and then said softly, "He was jumped because two staffers here caught us kissing; we thought we were alone. Wilson was getting something from his car in the parking lot and they cornered him there. Afterwards he dragged himself all the way up to my office instead of going to the ER because he was embarrassed. He collapsed from the bleeding there and Cuddy and I took him to Emerge."

Nolan was quiet, deeply disturbed by what he'd been told. He took a deep breath and exhaled, shaking his head. "What are you feeling right now, Greg?"

"I don't know."

"Yes you do."

House leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes briefly. "I feel angry. All I want to do is find out who those assholes were and beat the shit out of _them_. They were fucking cowards—going after him, two against one. James was no match for them."

"Did he tell you who his attackers were?" the psychiatrist asked him.

Shaking his head, the diagnostician replied, "No. He refused."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know. Maybe because he's afraid of retaliation if he does."

Nolan stared down at the surgery taking place below. "Feeling angry about this is okay, Greg. You deserve to feel angry. I know I do. I think you may be right about James—it wouldn't be an unusual reaction for him to have."

House didn't respond.

"Are you angry at anyone else?" was the next question.

House looked at his therapist again, searching the other man's face for a clue as to where he was going with this. "Cuddy."

"I see. Why?"

"She made a crack I didn't appreciate."

"And that was?"

"She implied that I'm involved with Wilson because I'm rebounding from her, calling it ridiculous."

Nolan frowned. "So she knows?"

"She does now," House answered. "She barged into my office unannounced and found Wilson with me, telling me about the attack. It was difficult to deny anything when she saw him all beat up."

"What do you think about what she said?" the Psychiatrist asked next, meeting the other's gaze.

"That she's a bitch?"

"Are you telling me or asking me?"

House sighed in frustration. "She's wrong."

"Did you tell her that?' Nolan asked him.

House half-nodded. "In not so many words."

"What were the words?"

The diagnostician smirked as he remembered his retort. He didn't regret saying it. "I sarcastically implied that she was full of herself if she thought I was so devastated by her refusal of me that I'd turn gay because of it. Then I told her to fuck off."

Nolan's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You do have a knack at being blunt. How did she react to that?"

"How do you think?" House asked. "She tried to pull her 'I'm your boss so don't screw with me' shit. I reminded her that her comment could be interpreted as sexual harassment. That shut her up for now."

"Her comment _was_ sexual harassment," Nolan said. "You have a right to be angry, especially considering what has just happened to James. Anyone else that you're angry at?"

The diagnostician didn't answer. He didn't want to because he didn't want to get into it with the therapist just then. He knew from experience, however, that Nolan wouldn't let it alone until he confessed. He knew House too well.

"Myself," he told the psychiatrist resignedly. "I initiated the kiss. I should have been more careful. I should have somehow…."

"Somehow what?" Nolan pressed gently.

"I should have protected him," House said with a sigh. "I feel guilty, too."

"That's good self-awareness and ownership of your feelings. Did you have foreknowledge of the attack, Greg?"

The diagnostician looked at him, frowning indignantly. "Of course not! If I had known I never would have allowed it to happen!"

"I know," Nolan assured him, nodding. "Your guilty feelings are consistent with the way you view yourself, but they're misplaced. You had no idea that the attack was going to occur so there is no way you could have protected James from it. As for the kiss, you were discreet and there was nothing wrong with you showing affection for someone you love. If you had kissed a woman and then she had been attacked later as a result, would you be guilty?"

"I don't know," House answered, shrugging. "If I had kissed a woman, no one would have given a damn!"

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"No. I don't think I would, but that's because I know that the attack wouldn't have been motivated by the kiss."

"My point is," Nolan explained, "the guilt doesn't belong with you. It belongs with James' attackers. You didn't do _anything_ wrong. James is down there because of others' bigotry, not because of you. Do you think James blames you?"

House shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "No. He told me as much before Cuddy interrupted us."

Nolan said nothing. He simply looked meaningfully at the diagnostician, catching his eye. House nodded reluctantly in acknowledgement.

"What else are you feeling?" Nolan asked him after a moment.

Considering that question, House answered, "I'm afraid of losing James. He hasn't completely recovered yet from the LOD and now this. For the past week and a half, things have been…good. He makes me happy. I can't stand the thought of losing him."

"Your fear is normal," the Psychiatrist assured him. "In fact it's very healthy."

"Healthy?" the diagnostician echoed bitterly.

"Yes," was Nolan's answer. "Your relationship with James is deep. You've formed a bond with him, something you've struggled with most of your life, and if he dies you will suffer a great loss. It's absolutely appropriate to be afraid of that happening. It feels terrible, but it's a sign that you're healing. How likely is it that James will die as a result of his injuries today?"

Shrugging, House answered, "Unless something goes wrong down there or there are complications like an infection or a bleed in his liver…his odds of recovering well are quite good. So my fear is irrational."

"I didn't say that," Nolan told him. "In fact, I just finished telling you otherwise. I simply want you to focus on the positive rather than obsess over the negative. Hope is a balm for our fears."

There was silence between them for two or three minutes before Nolan asked him. "Anything else you want to talk about concerning this?"

"No," House answered automatically and then thought again. "Actually, yes. Not about this. Something different."

"Oh? Go on."

The diagnostician gathered his thoughts. "It's about a patient of mine. A five-year-old child. We'll call him Kenny."

Nolan looked intrigued. "Umm hmm."

"He was brought in with a menagerie of symptoms. Neurological, gastrointestinal…turns out he was suffering from a splenic rupture and _Clostridium perfingens_ infection. He had bruising over all four quadrants of his abdomen. His mother claimed that the bruising was from a bike accident where he landed hard on his handlebars. It looked more like he'd been used as a punching bag. I talked with him, asked him a few questions. He admitted that his mother had punched him several times as punishment for catching him eating soil from her garden. It had been fertilized with manure, hence the Clostridium. The thing is, the ER he was rushed to before he was transferred here reported that his stomach had been literally filled with soil and the child claims he didn't eat a lot. There were abrasions, small cuts and bruising on his lips. I asked him if his mother had force-fed him more of the soil and he broke down crying." House sighed heavily, still troubled by the memory of it.

"You reported it to CPS, I assume," Nolan said quietly. "I see that this troubles you a great deal."

"That's the thing," the diagnostician said. "I've treated people of all ages who were victims of child abuse before Kenny and have barely felt a thing. I usually avoid personal contact with my patients, especially children—I've told you that before. For some reason, Kenny's different."

"How, different?"

"When he cried…I felt strange. I was furious with his mother and…I felt like crying with him. I can't get him out of my mind. Before you suggest it, I _do_ see the connection between him and myself as a child. In fact, he even evoked a nightmare…a memory, really, from when I was around his age. What's confusing me is why he moves me when the others didn't."

Nolan thought about it for a moment. "When was the last time you treated a child who had been abused?"

"I don't know…maybe a year ago?"

"Before Recovery began?"

"Yeah," House agreed. "Why?"

"A year ago you were still numbing yourself with drugs and alcohol. You were in denial of your past and your emotions," the psychiatrist pointed out. "Since then you've sobered up and worked on accepting your emotions and allowing yourself to feel them. You're learning how to connect to others, to build bonds and to empathize. Not only is your reaction to Kenny okay, it's an indicator of how much you've grown in a year. The next time you try to tell me that you'll never change, I'm going to remind you of this. I'm very pleased."

House avoided his therapist's eyes. He felt extremely uncomfortable when he received compliments or praise; he never knew what to say in response.

"I promised him I wouldn't allow his mom to hurt him again," the diagnostician said, frowning. "I had no right to make that promise…I don't know if I have the ability to keep it, but I want to. I don't want to let him down."

"It may not have been wise to tell him that," Nolan agreed. "However, I think making the effort to do as much as you can to protect him may be a very therapeutic thing for you, so long as you remember that there are some things you have no control over and you keep from beating yourself up if things don't turn out the way you want them to. Have you talked to James about this?"

House shook his head. "I planned to this evening, but that was before…_this_. Now it will have to wait." He sighed heavily. "Thank you."

Nolan looked at him and smiled quizzically. "For what, Greg?"

"For coming here…it helps," the diagnostician told him with a weak smile.

"You're welcome."

* * *

James Wilson opened his eyes in the Recovery room to see the face of his lover looking down at him with a combination of relief and concern. House held his hand and smiled.

"Welcome back."

"You're…here." the oncologist said drowsily.

"Where else would I be?" the diagnostician asked rhetorically, and leaned over to kiss his forehead tenderly. "Surgery went well. You're going to be okay. We've got to stop meeting here like this…people will begin to talk."

Wilson smiled. "I guess the cat…is out of the bag. I'm glad."

"Me, too," House told him honestly. "You need to tell who it was that hurt you. The police have to know, so this doesn't happen to you or anyone else again."

Nodding, Wilson replied, "I know. I had the…craziest dream."

"You were marching in the next Gay Pride parade naked?" House guessed hopefully.

"No."

"Damn! _I_ was marching naked?"

"No," Wilson said, grinning. "I dreamt we had a kid."

House shuddered dramatically. "Okay, but you have to give birth."

"No," the oncologist replied. "We adopted. Weird, huh?"

House looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then shrugged.

"_Que sera, sera_."


	4. Chapter 4 Presumption of Innocence

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: I hope you enjoythis chapter! Please comment—it helps me improve my writing! Thank you to all who have been following along and reviewing!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated M** for language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

* * *

**Chapter Four--Presumption of Innocence**

Dr. Gregory House stood outside of the ICU room, watching through the glass with a frown on his bearded face as two police detectives interviewed his lover. It had been two days since Dr. James Wilson had been attacked in the hospital parking lot by two Neanderthals out to bully and destroy anyone and anything their miniscule minds couldn't comprehend. Wilson and he had been keeping their blossoming relationship a secret until they both were comfortable enough to come 'out', as it were. Impulsively House had stolen a kiss from the oncologist at work when there didn't seem to be anyone else around to witness it. Unfortunately they had been wrong about that and Wilson had been the one to bear the brunt of two residents' bigotry; he had gone to his car to retrieve a patient file he had accidentally forgot to bring in with him that morning and had been jumped from behind by the so-called 'healers', whom had proceeded to beat and kick him mercilessly. The result had been two lacerations of Wilson's bowel causing internal bleeding which had threatened to kill him. Surgery had gone well, and barring any infection caused by bacteria escaping from the bowel into his abdominal cavity, he would recover completely. Despite several unsuccessful efforts to get the oncologist to say who his attackers were House had managed to convince him to file a police report following the emergency surgery.

The diagnostician simply thought it was a little soon after surgery for an interrogation. Wilson had accused him of being over-protective. House's response had been simple: Damn straight he was! After years of denial he had finally given himself to the one true love of his life and he wasn't about to allow anything to destroy the one source of happiness in the world that he had found and the source of that happiness. He would do whatever it took to protect Wilson.

House heard the tell-tale clicking of four inch heels on the tiled floor heading in his direction. He sighed in frustration. Here was yet another source of potential hurt from which he had to defend Wilson and himself. Closing his eyes briefly he prepared himself for the inevitable confrontation and argument that was coming.

Dr. Lisa Cuddy walked up and stopped at the diagnostician's side, her curly brunette hair and ample breasts continuing to bounce after she stopped. She folded her arms in front of her and watched the events unfolding on the other side of the glass for two or three minutes before saying anything.

"How is he?" she asked quietly, looking up at the man beside her. House didn't return her gaze but kept his eyes straight ahead instead. He was still pissed off at the Dean of Medicine for the harassing remark she had made the day of the attack when she had learned that Wilson and he were lovers.

"The same is was when you asked an hour ago," was his cold reply. He was sick of her showing up every hour on the hour asking the same damned questions each time. He knew that her concern was genuine but he just couldn't bring himself to forgive her and therefore refused to acknowledge it.

"When did the police arrive?" Cuddy asked next. If she was aware of House's anger towards her she didn't show it. "I knew that they were coming today but I didn't know when."

"And you didn't bother informing me of that fact because you knew I'd bar them access if you had." It was a statement of fact, not a question.

"I wasn't aware that I was obligated to inform you about anything concerning Wilson," Cuddy retorted, her blue-gray eyes flashing angrily. "You're not listed as his next of kin."

"Check again," House told her, now glowering down at her, his crystalline blue eyes appearing cold as ice. "Wilson changed it a week ago. Besides, that's never made any difference before. What is it that you want? What do you hope to gain by baiting me like this? Go back to your office and away from where _good_ doctors are at work!"

"Damnit, House! I--." She began to shout and then stopped herself mid-sentence. She took a deep breath and then began again, controlling the volume of her voice this time. "I came here because…because I wanted to apologize for what I said the other day in Emergency."

House continued to glare at her but said nothing. He wanted to hear the apology, not that he had any intention of accepting it or forgiving her. He wanted her to grovel. He wanted to knock her down a few notches and remind her that she may be hospital's administrator but that didn't give her the right to be a total bitch. Cuddy took his silence as permission to continue.

"I was caught completely off guard by the revelation that you and Wilson are…."

"_Say _it," House told her sharply. "It's an easy word to say, so just _say it_!"

The Dean of Medicine exhaled quietly. "Lovers," she said softly. "I've known you both for so long and have seen you both ogle and pursue every pretty woman that came into sight. You once lived with a woman and, until recently, pursued a relationship with me. Wilson's been married three times and was obviously in love with Amber. So naturally when you revealed to me the true nature of your relationship I was shocked speechless. I didn't bother to think about what I said, I just said it and…well, I realize how offensive it was. You had every right to say what you said to me. I truly am very sorry. Who am I to judge? If the two of you are happy then I…I think that's great! Well, I said what I came to say, so, I'll be going."

House watched her squirm her way throughout the entirety of her explanation and apology. He believed that she was telling the truth but he didn't give a damn what her excuse was and only wanted the apology. He hadn't needed to listen to her rationalization of it, too. He watched her turn around and walk away a lot less assertively than when she had arrived.

_Good_, he thought icily. _She deserves to feel like a louse. I wonder if her lawyer told her to do it._

Turning his attention back to Wilson and his interrogators House saw that they were wrapping up the interview. Without invitation or permission, House walked into the room and walked over to Wilson's bedside placing himself between the oncologist and the detectives.

"Finished?" the diagnostician asked, not waiting for an answer, "Good, get out!"

"House," Wilson weakly spoke up, looking up with deep brown eyes that could melt his lover's resolve with one glance. He was reverting back to the habit of addressing him by his last name when other people were around, "Relax. It's all good."

The diagnostician gave him a dubious look before turning an annoyed one onto the police. "What?" he said irritably. "You're still here? Don't you have a donut shop to go to?"

Looking at the older doctor in annoyance one of the detectives, the one that looked eerily like Shaggy from 'Scooby-Doo'1, told him. "Don't worry, we're leaving." To Wilson he added, "Thank you for your cooperation, Doctor. We'll keep you updated on the progress of our investigation."

"Thank you," was Wilson's reply. House glared at them with hostility even after they were out the door and out of sight. He then relaxed and sat down next to the hospital bed in the chair which had served as _his_ bed for the past two nights. The diagnostician had only gone back to the apartment long enough to shower and change clothes. He squirmed a little under the intensity of the look he was receiving from the oncologist.

"Was that necessary? They were only doing their job, Greg."

"They could have done it just as well tomorrow," House told him stubbornly. "You need to be resting, not testifying before the Inquisition."

The younger doctor sighed, shaking his dark-haired head slightly. "Aren't you being a tad overdramatic?" he asked. "I'm tired but otherwise I feel surprisingly good."

"You don't _look_ good," House told him bluntly, as was his style. "You look like you're in pain. Are you?"

Wilson waved away the question as being irrelevant. "A little, maybe. I'm fine."

"'A little' my aunt's fat ass!" House snorted in derision. "When was the last time you received pain meds?"

Wilson thought about the question. "You were still asleep…it was right around six this morning."

As the oncologist was recalling the information the diagnostician had grabbed the chart at the end of the bed and looked it up. House was terrible for not charting with his own patients so it was damned good that the rest of the staff was.

"It says here 'Five-fifty-eight a.m.," the older doctor read. "It's nearly noon. Time for more."

"I don't need more right now," Wilson told him in objection as his lover pressed the call button clipped to his pillow. One look at him told House that he was lying.

"Try convincing your face of that," House told him sardonically. "Quit the martyr act, Jimmy-boy. It's not attractive. If you're in pain then take the damned pain meds! Don't worry—you won't end up an addict like me."

"A _recovering _addict," the oncologist reminded him. "You always seem to leave that part out."

The door opened and a nurse came into the room.

"He's _overdo_ for his morphine," told her sharply, "What are you women doing at your station anyway…giving each other manicures and gossiping about the boss?"

The nurse glared at the older doctor. It wasn't the first time she had been yelled at by him; it wasn't even the first time that morning. "Yes, Doctor," she said through gritted teeth. "I'll be right back with that."

"And bring me a coffee when you come," House told her off-handedly. "Black, double sweet."

The look she gave him before she left could have killed a bull but not a crotchety old goat like him, and House found it amusing. He even allowed himself a quick smile before replacing it with his standard annoyed look instead.

"Ever the charmer," Wilson commented sarcastically. He shifted uncomfortably in his bed which was slightly inclined. As he moved he appeared to experience a sharper pain and gasped in response.

"Lie still," the older doctor told him. "What are you trying to do, pull out your stitches? That's my trick—find your own."

"Sorry," Wilson replied dryly, "I haven't had as much practice as you have at winding up in a hospital bed with half of my body held together with suture cotton. I'll try to come up with something original by tomorrow." He winced once more and the pain was strong enough to cause his face to turn ashen. "I have to admit," he grunted. "This really hurts."

"Quit squirming around, then!" House told him, rolling his eyes. "Don't worry—in a few minutes you won't care how much pain you're in. God, I envy you."

Wilson frowned. "Leg bad?"

The diagnostician rubbed his thigh. "About a six." He admitted.

"You've been doing a lot better than that," the oncologist said with concern. "Go home…take some Ibuprofen, put your leg up and get some sleep! You don't have to keep vigil over me anymore—I'm going to _live_, remember? Sleeping another night in that chair will only aggravate it further."

"I don't want to leave you alone," House told him. "You'll miss me too much." The truth was House knew that _he_ was the one who would be doing most of the missing. He was getting used to having someone to snuggle up to before going to sleep and he wasn't certain he'd be able to slumber left on his own. He hated how needy he could be.

"Once I get that morphine shot," Wilson said, "I won't even _remember_ you for the next few hours. _Go_!"

House stubbornly remained in the chair, crossing his arms in front of him like a spoiled brat. "Fine," he said, "but I'm not leaving before you fall asleep."

"Fine," Wilson agreed with a sigh and closed his eyes. House simply sat and looked at the younger man for a while. The grimace on his lover's face bother him and he rose from the chair, went to the door and poked his head outside. At the top of his lungs he bellowed towards the nursing station. "Patient—in—pain—bring—the—damned—morphine—now!" House stepped back into the room and turned around to see the oncologist glaring at him.

"What?" the older man demanded, feigning innocence because there honestly wasn't anything innocent about him and he knew it.

"Come sit down and behave yourself!" Wilson told him as forcefully as he could which wasn't all that forceful.

Sighing, the diagnostician reluctantly obeyed, but that didn't keep him from grousing. "You're worse than my mother ever was! Sheesh, try to help a guy and this is what I get!"

Though crude, his method did work and quickly at that. Wilson's nurse returned to the room holding a loaded hypodermic, staring daggers at House as she approached her patient. Wilson knew the drill; he rolled gingerly onto his side just enough to give her access to his hip. House watched warily as she swabbed the injection site with an alcohol wipe and then inserted the needle and injected the morphine into the muscle and carefully pulled it out again. Because the needle was inserted into muscle and not a vein it failed to bleed of any consequence and didn't require a band-aid. Wilson rolled back onto his back, wincing as he did, and the nurse pulled the bedding up over him once more. She then took the wrapper from the swab and tossed it into a trash can and disposed of the hypodermic into a biohazard box attached to the wall behind the bed. She threw another dirty look at House as she retrieved the chart, documented the injection and then replaced the chart to the slot on the end of the bed.

"Thank you, Tammy," Wilson said to her softly with one of his devilishly beguiling smiles that seemed to work on her as well as it did on the rest of the nursing staff. She smiled in response and then left the room but not before giving the diagnostician a final evil face. House stuck his tongue out at her in response.

"Oh, very mature," the oncologist told him sarcastically.

"She started it," the older man told him defensively.

"No," the younger man answered, "_you_ did by bellowing at her and the rest of the staff like a bull moose."

House responded by sticking his tongue out again and pouting. It was just like Wilson to wear away at his good mood. If he had intended on being obnoxious he would have walked all the way down to the nursing station and yelled from there.

"What was with that smile, anyway?" House demanded irritably. "You're already taken, or have you forgotten so soon?"

Wilson looked at him with alarm in his eyes. "Of course not!" he said quickly. "I give everybody that smile, you know that."

Of course House knew that but he enjoyed toying with his lover's mind—it was one of his favorite pastimes. "You've never given _me_ that smile," House told him with a frown, feigning suspicion but trying not to ham it up too badly.

"Yes I have!" Wilson defended. "I give you that smile all the time! Greg, you're not jealous--?"

"She is very, how shall we say, _curvaceous_," House countered, giving it all he had and struggling not to reveal a smile.

Now Wilson appeared to be very upset; he was taking the bait hook, line and sinker. House could hear the monitor as his heart rate and respiration increased. A joke was a joke but he wasn't willing to allow it to harm him.

"House, I wasn't trying to flirt! I was just being polite…!" the oncologist insisted but his voice trailed off when he saw a self-satisfied smirk emerge on the diagnostician's face. "And I just let you get me again!" He said in disgust, shaking his head.

House gave his lover a smile that was reserved exclusively for him and leaned forward to kiss the younger man softly but passionately on the lips. Wilson received it happily and returned the same. House lingered there for a moment longer and cupped the younger man's cheek with his hand, caressing the skin with his thumb. His blue eyes locked with Wilson's brown ones.

"I love you," the diagnostician whispered against Wilson's lips as he kissed him again.

"Harugghm-hmm," someone vocalized from the door. House recognized that particular throat being cleared and looked up guiltily as Wilson did the same.

"Busted!" Dr. Remy 'Thirteen' Hadley said, her crossed in front of her and a smug smirk on her symmetrical face.

House gave Wilson a surprised look. "You hadn't told her yet?"

"Nope!" Thirteen answered for him. "I've been trying to get him to sit down for a chat for over a week now but I've always just missed him. I'm glad to see that things have turned out well…for both of you."

House felt very uncomfortable. He wasn't embarrassed about his relationship with Wilson but he was always ill-at-ease with scrutiny of any kind. Deep down he was a very private person but he hid that fact by being confrontational, loud and, sometimes, overly dramatic. He didn't acknowledge the comment but Wilson did.

"Thank you, Remy." The oncologist was beginning to fade as the morphine began to do its work. His pain was quickly diminishing and at the same time he was becoming very sleepy—morphine was classified as a narcotic for nothing.

"So why are you here?" House asked her bluntly, rarely one to mince words.

"I was looking for you," his Fellow told him. "A worker from CPS was by your office a few minutes ago. She wanted to talk to you about Kenny. She went to visit with him until you were available. I told her that it could be a long wait but--."

"I'll be down there right away," the diagnostician told her, becoming even more serious than he had just been. Apparently Thirteen hadn't expected that response because she arched an eyebrow in surprise and nodded uncertainly.

"Okay, uh, great," she said haltingly. "I'll just go let her know, then." She approached Wilson and gave him a quick peck on the forehead. "Get better fast."

The oncologist smiled at her dopily and nodded. _Oh ,yeah_, House mused, _he's baked, all right_.

"Later," she said to House and then left. A smile tugged on the corners of his lips. He turned his attention back to the younger man, who was nearly asleep. He rose to his feet and bent down to kiss Wilson softly on the mouth.

"Go to sleep," the diagnostician told him quietly.

"You too," Wilson murmured, "at _home_."

"Yes, Mom," House said sarcastically but his lover was already asleep. He quietly made his way out and headed to Kenneth Baker's room.

House entered Kenny's room without knocking. Sitting on the chair at the five-year-old's bedside was not the individual he expected to see sitting there. Another woman stood closer to the foot of the bed. Anger awoke in him, his entire body displaying it for everyone to see.

He turned to the older woman standing at the foot of the bed. "What the hell is she doing here!" he demanded loudly, pointing to the woman sitting down next to the small boy.

"Who are you?" the older woman asked him condescendingly, her eyes appraising him.

"I'm his doctor!" House answered, his glaring eyes never leaving the younger woman but speaking to the older. "Who the hell are you?"

The older woman frowned with disapproval, probably at his language around the child and his gruff ways. "I'm Mrs. Talbot; I'm a worker from CPS assigned to Kenneth. This is his mother."

The younger woman looked at him indignantly. She was holding Kenny's hand. The boy's face displayed surprise and uncertainty and House realized that his outburst had scared him. For that reason and that reason only he forced himself to calm down and speak in a milder tone at a lower volume.

"I want to talk to you both outside." His tone left them no room to argue. He waited for Talbot and Eva Baker to walk past him.

"We'll just be a couple of minutes, Kenny," House told the boy gently, surprising himself. He was definitely getting _soft_. He went to where the women were waiting. To Talbot he said, "_She_ does not have access to the child!"

"I'm his mom," the diminutive younger woman told him angrily. "You can't keep me from seeing him!"

House looked at her with distaste. Baker was short and petite, perhaps five-one or five-two and he estimated her to weigh little more than a hundred pounds if that. As far as age went she couldn't have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four at the most. Her bleached-blonde hair was growing out at the roots to expose the mousy brown of her true color. She wore too much make-up which she spent too much time putting on. Her sweater and skinnys were designer but her shoes were worn and looked like she had got them from a discount store or thrift shop. On her fingers were numerous silver and gold-plated rings but noticeably there wasn't one on her left ring finger and it didn't appear that there ever had been. Inch-long gel nails painted gaudy chartreuse had little rhinestones glued onto them as embellishment. She smelled of designer perfume, fresher tobacco and staler pot. Her eyes were red-rimmed but there was no other indication that she had been crying; she wasn't stoned but he suspected she had been the night before.

"You gave up that right the moment you punched that child in the gut!" House told her coldly, his eyes a gelid blue. "As his doctor I can restrict whomever I want if I think it's a risk to my patient."

"You're a fucking liar!" Baker spat at him venomously, her eyes darting back and forth between the diagnostician and the social worker. "I would never hurt my baby boy!"

"Dr. House," Talbot said mildly, "I appreciate your concern for Kenneth. Your report was received and it's receiving the proper attention, I can assure you. Our investigation is still in progress. Until it is complete CPS is allowing Ms. Baker _supervised_ visits with her son. There will always be a worker present when she is visiting. You must remember that until a conclusion as to the validity of your claim of child abuse is made, Ms. Baker is given the benefit of the doubt while at the same time CPS makes certain that Kenneth is not in danger."

"In other words," Baker said to him in contempt, "_fuck you_!"

House's hands balled up into fists and if she hadn't been a woman she would have received a right hook to the jaw already; if she continued to bait him he would disregard her gender and do it anyway.

"This piece of trailer-trash saw her son displaying Pica, a disorder that he can't control on his own. He was eating dirt—so his so-called 'mom' punched him in the stomach numerous times, rupturing his spleen and nearly killing him—but that's not enough for her—then she has to cram his stomach full of soil contaminated with unsterilized manure, poisoning him. Then she lies, telling ER staff that he fell on his bike and makes no mention of the soil consumption at all. There _is_ no doubt to benefit her!"

"I appreciate your concern," Talbot told him again, unruffled. "However our policy is quite clear. If you try to bar Ms. Baker she has the right to get a court order to see him and if our investigation concludes that there is not enough evidence to support the accusation, she could sue both you and this hospital. I spoke with Dr. Cuddy about this earlier and she understood."

_Of course she did_, House thought bitterly. _Can't take a stand to do the right thing if it means the hospital might lose as much as a penny in profit!_

"I'm going in to be with my son," Baker said defiantly and began to head back into the room. House grabbed her wrist and easily held her in place.

"Sorry," he told her, his eyes gleaming with fury barely restrained. "Kenny is heading for a full battery of tests—could take _hours._ He has to be prepped now."

"Then I'll go with him," Baker sneered.

"No you won't!" House told her, whining snottily. "It's against hospital _policy_." He looked at Talbot with the last word. "You might as well go back to your motel and cop more weed for tonight."

Talbot looked at the diagnostician incredulously and Baker began to do her imitation of a long-shore man but he didn't bother standing around arguing any further. He limped to the nursing station to give his orders for a full series of unnecessary, non-invasive tests that would take several hours to complete and then headed for his office.

He really was very tired and the idea of sleeping in an actual bed was enticing. His leg ached miserably despite the prescription-strength Ibuprofen he took for it, and there was a kink in his back from sleeping in a chair. It would be good to go home, shower, eat and sleep for a few hours. Thirteen had assured him that she would stop by Wilson's room and sit with him while the diagnostician was gone.

Carrying his helmet in one arm House held his cane in the other and limped his way down the walkway leading to his parking spot where his motorcycle sat waiting. He was pleased and relieved to see that it was still there and in one piece. He mounted the bike and was about to put his helmet on when he noticed that he'd been followed by a familiar male wearing a lab coat and a sneer.

"So it's my turn now, Noddrick?" House asked him in a low, gravelly voice. "Where's your fellow jackbooted moron?"

The fourth-year resident snorted, "I always knew there was something wrong about you, House, but I didn't suspect you to be a fag. Your bitch Wilson, well, that's another story."

House dismounted his bike and removed his cane from its holder. The loathing he had for the bigot in front of him was palpable in the air between them. Every muscle in his body tensed up and adrenalin began to be excreted into his blood, preparing him for a fight. He wasn't about to be beaten half to death; if Noddrick made another slur against Wilson _he_ was going to be the one to be thumped.

"Go crawl under the pile of shit you came from," House told him, nearly growling. Deep down House was not a violent person but he had learned young that life was little more than a bloody battle amongst members of the supposedly wise _Homo sapiens sapiens_. If you wanted to survive, you had to know how to fight.

"We don't need your kind in this hospital," Noddrick told him quietly, slowly advancing on the diagnostician. House hung his helmet on the handlebars of his bike, never looking away from his antagonist. When the resident was within three feet of him he stopped and pulled something out of the pocket of his lab coat. House saw a metallic flash off of the object in Noddrick's hand. He couldn't believe that the younger doctor was planning on attacking him in broad daylight so close to the hospital. Then again, House could peripherally see that there wasn't anyone in proximity and even if someone did see the attack it would take them too long to stop it or catch the running resident.

"Trust me, Noddrick, I have no interest in banging you," the diagnostician told him banefully. "It would be so horrific my dick would fall off."

Noddrick moved so quickly that House was caught off guard. He saw the flash of a blade arc towards him a second too late; the razor-sharp weapon easily sliced through his leather jacket and clothing underneath, superficially slashing the skin of his chest just above his left nipple. House's response was his cane swinging to catch his attacker in the back of his knees. Noddrick saw it coming, jumping out of the way and slashing again, this time deeply slicing the diagnostician across the clavicle, fortunately avoiding any major blood vessels. As the younger man's arm was finishing its swing House caught it and twisted it in an unnatural direction. The resident screamed in agony as his shoulder and elbow were dislocated and tendons were pulled. To finish him off, the older man threw aside his cane and slammed him full-strength in the abdomen with his fist, knocking the wind out of Noddrick. House released his grip on his arm and allowed his opponent to drop to the ground, writhing in pain and gasping for air. The older man stood over the younger, his foot ready to smash the resident's head should he try to come at him again.

"You've just been owned by a 'faggot', dick-head!" House growled down at the loser, panting. "How does it feel to be on the receiving end?"

Noddrick couldn't respond because he was still trying to re-inflate his lungs. House used his foot to force the resident to look at him as he said. "You or any of your imbeciles so much as breathe on either Wilson or me again and you won't be conscious when I'm done with you!"

The sound of several feet against the concrete coming towards him caught House's attention and he looked up as two security guards arrived looking like the Keystone Cops. They scrambled to secure Noddrick.

"Sure, _now _you get here," the diagnostician groused, frowning. He pulled the zipper on his jacket lower and put his hand to the deep cut on his clavicle. It stung badly with his touch. Blood was staining one of his favorite t-shirts. "Shit," he muttered. The cut on his chest was superficial and wouldn't need much attending to but the one on his clavicle would definitely require stitches.

House hobbled over to where his cane had rolled, picked it up, brushed the dust off of it and headed for the ER. Sleep would just have to wait.

* * *

1 The characters of Scooby-Doo and Shaggy belong to Hanna-Barbera Productions.


	5. Chapter 5 Clear and Convincing Evidence

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: This is personally one of my favorite chapters. I hope you enjoy it! Please comment—it helps me improve my writing!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated M** for language, violence and explicit sexuality. Discretion advised.

* * *

**Chapter Five--Clear and Convincing Evidence**

Lying on the Emergency Room examination bed Dr. Gregory House winced as the ER doc cleaned and stitched the slash on his collar bone. Dr. Terri Lowe, the doctor who had replaced Dr. Cameron when she had resigned, had offered him local anesthetic before beginning but House had scoffed at the idea, telling her that Lidocaine was for wimps. After the first stitch he wished he had taken her up on her offer. He knew he could still request it but his pride wouldn't allow him to change his mind. So he gritted his teeth, inhaling quickly every time the needle pierced his flesh; in some places the wound was deeper than others and required a second layer of stitches made with dissolvable thread.

After five stitches Lowe stopped. "Are you sure you don't want a little freezing, Dr. House?" she offered again, looking at him with pretty grey eyes. "It's got to hurt pretty badly. I promise to keep it a secret."

"Are you patronizing me?" he growled at her.

"Not at all," she replied calmly and he could see her smile behind the mask she wore over her mouth and nose. "I just thought it might save you some money at your next dental check-up, what with all that teeth-grinding you're doing."

"Just get on with it," he grumbled. "How old are you anyway? You look like you just went from diapers into big girl pants."

"I'm twenty-nine, Doctor," she responded. "I've been wearing big girl pants for a long time."

House winced with the next jab. He had to admit that she was actually quite gentle at it but that didn't mean he had to admit it to her.

"So," Lowe said to him as she worked. "Care to share the story behind these cuts? Spurned girlfriend?"

House glared up at her. He wasn't in the best of moods and at the best of times he wasn't a 'chatter', so when he found himself talking he was a little surprised. "Boyfriend," he said, watching her eyes for a reaction. "It wasn't him. It was a jerk who jumped me because I have a boyfriend."

He saw no reaction at all from her other than a frown when she said, "That just really infuriates me," she told him. "You don't know how many cases in a week I see come in here with injuries received as a result of bigotry. Race, religion, ethnicity, politics, sexual orientation and preference…I'd love to see the day when I didn't have to be stitching people up for being who they are."

House said nothing to that. He had often thought that himself. The moronic biases people held on to about things that shouldn't matter had always held a dark fascination for him, caused him to question the human race as a whole.

"So, I'm new here," she said to him. "What do you do here for pocket change?"

"I head up the Diagnostics department," he said. "Your predecessor was once a member of my team."

"Ah, so you're the _world-famous_ Dr. House," Lowe said with a nod. "Gee, I was expecting some Grecian god after listening to some of my colleagues at the last hospital I worked when they found out I was going to work here."

House refrained from smiling at the irony. "Are you implying I'm not?"

"Gods don't have infarctions," she told him bluntly. The way she said it held no recrimination or mockery. The fact that she displayed absolutely no pity impressed him.

"How did you know it was an infarction?" House asked her. "Somebody around here tell you?"

"No," she replied. "I just knew what to look for. My brother was training as a triathelete for the World's a few years back when he injured his foot. The foot healed fine, but it spawned clots that travelled his body. One caused an infarction in his calf. It's a good thing he had his wife to help him through that. Unfortunately he wasn't as fortunate as you were."

House frowned, not because she had called the result of his infarction as fortunate but because he _knew_ he was fortunate as far as blood clots were concerned.

"What?" he asked. "Did he lose his leg or something?"

Lowe finished off a neat knot and looked him in the eyes. "Nope. His life. He lost the leg first, was given clot-busters…it didn't stop another one from hitting a lung. He was home alone at the time and was in too much pain to get to the phone. Nobody heard his screams. By the time his wife got home from picking up his prescription from the pharmacy he'd suffered a rupture and drowned in his own blood."

"Shit," House said softly, stunned. The ER doc noticed his discomfort.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, Dr. House."

After a minute or two of silence House managed to ask, "How's his wife?" he asked quietly. He had no clue why he even cared but he did.

"She's doing well now," Lowe answered. "My nephew was born four months after my brother died. It was hard on her going through the pregnancy and birth alone…not that she was really alone. She had my entire family there for her—still does. Sometimes life doesn't turn out the way you dreamed it would, but that doesn't mean it ends altogether. What matters is how we take what we're given, or in her case, what she had left, and continue on—you know? Of course you do…you lost most of the function of your leg but instead of giving up you kept going, kept practicing medicine and earning quite the reputation for yourself. I had several friends apply to be one of your fellows a few years ago because they wanted to learn from your skill and knowledge. My sister-in-law is raising one hell of a little boy, started her own accounting firm and is engaged to be married to a terrific guy. It's about being survivors, however you manage to do it."

He mulled over her words, feeling uncomfortable. He was no hero. His method of survival hadn't been courage unless one counted the kind got from the bottom of Vicodin and liquor bottles. Denial and avoidance had been his way of managing to _exist_, not survive. Lowe seemed to read his mind.

"Hey," the ER doc said to him, her eyes soft, like her voice. "I know about your addiction and the fact that you went through detox and rehab. Nothing remains a secret in a hospital for very long. You're probably rejecting what I said about you being a survivor but you are."

House said deeply, avoiding her gaze, "How do you figure that?" He wished she would just finish stitching his wound so he could get the hell out of there. He didn't like talking about himself, particularly with strangers.

"You're still sober, aren't you?" she asked him in response.

"Yeah," he answered, frowning. "So?"

"So?" Lowe echoed incredulously. "It takes a lot of guts to admit when you have a problem and need help. It takes even more to actually get that help and then carry on after you go home and you don't have guardians protecting you from yourself. It takes a ton more to come back to a place where most of the people you work with know your history and are reluctant to let go of it and give you a second chance." She snipped the last stitch and then looked at her handiwork. "All done—looks pretty good if I do say so myself." She began to put a light dressing over the wound. "So, is your boyfriend coming to pick you up and take you home?"

House sat up and accepted the scrub shirt Lowe handed him to replace his ruined T-shirt. He gingerly pulled it over his head. "He's a patient here right now. He was attacked by the same idiots before me."

The ER doc had removed her gloves and mask and had thrown them into the biohazard waste bin. She shook her head and her face screwed up in concern. "My god! Is he alright?"

"_He will_ be. This time, anyway." House told her with a nod.

"Wait--," Lowe said, something dawning on her. "Was he the doctor brought in a few days ago after having been beaten in the hospital parking lot? I was off that day but I heard about it when I returned."

"That's him," House answered grimly. "I got off easy compared to him. Guess I was fortunate again."

Lowe reached over and put her hand on House's shoulder, giving it a quick, comforting squeeze. House didn't like to be touched by others all that much, but the gesture was actually comforting and he couldn't help but give her a small smile.

"Take care of yourself and your boyfriend, Dr. House," she told him.

"I will," he answered a little gruffly, embarrassed at the kindness she was showing him but at the same time liking it, too. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Hey," Lowe said, shrugging nonchalantly, "it's what they pay me the pocket change to do."

* * *

It was after visiting hours and both Mrs. Talbot from CPS and that harpy Eva Baker had gone home. House had returned to the hospital later in the evening for that very reason. He wasn't intimidated by his patient's mother but he was so revolted by her that he couldn't bring himself to be around her any more than he absolutely had to. He looked into Kenny's room and found the five year old staring up at the ceiling with huge green eyes, fidgeting with the trim of the hospital blanket draped over him.

House walked into his room and immediately took the chart from the end of the bed to have a look.

"Hello, Dr. H," a small voice said to him. The diagnostician looked up from the chart to see Kenny staring at him. He put the chart away and then sat down in the chair next to the bed. In spite of himself a smile escaped across his bearded face.

"You're supposed to be going to sleep," House told him.

"I don't wanna," Kenny told him, shaking his head sadly. "I have bad dreams."

House didn't doubt that. The child had endured abuse at his own mother's hands. It was only natural he would be having nightmares. House still had nightmares from his childhood that often woke him, screaming. The last time it had happened, Wilson was there to comfort him and hold him in his arms until the panic passed. Who did Kenny have--some strange nurse in the middle of the night?

"What kind of bad dreams?" House asked him. "Do you want to talk about them?"

Kenny shrugged, looking at him with troubles eyes. No five-year-old should have troubled eyes, House decided, knowing full well how many thousands upon thousands there were who wore them on a regular basis.

"Do I have to?" he asked.

House shook his head. "No, you don't."

"Would it help me go to sleep?" was the child's next question.

"I don't know," the diagnostician told him honestly, "but I have a doctor who tells me that sometimes talking about things that frighten me or make me sad helps me feel better."

Kenny's five-year-old brain thought that over for a few moments. House really had no idea what he was doing, but if the boy wanted to talk and for some strange, inexplicable reason trusted him, he would listen. This particular child had managed to get past his crusty shell to touch his heart. Once again he was reminded that he was getting soft. Kenny was going to destroy House's surly, heart-as-hard-as-stone reputation.

"If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell my mommy I told you?" the child asked the doctor almost fearfully. House felt something begin to gnaw at the pit of his stomach in anticipation of what he was going to hear.

"I promise," the diagnostician said. He wouldn't tell his mother; he would tell CPS instead.

"Will you hold my hand like you did before, Dr. H?"

House took the boy's hand in his own. He didn't urge Kenny to talk but rather sat quietly waiting for him to speak when he was ready.

After a few seconds and a couple of tears the five year old said, "My mommy hurt my bum today. When Mrs. Talbot went to the bathroom."

House immediately bristled and his jaw set in anger; he had to remind himself not to clench his fists and hurt the small hand he held. It wasn't bad enough that Baker had harmed her son at home but she was brazen enough to do it in a hospital with doctors and nurses everywhere? What the hell was that bitch Talbot thinking leaving Kenny alone for five seconds with the woman accused of nearly killing him?

With more restraint than House figured he had, he forced himself to calm down before he spoke.

"How did she hurt it, Kenny?"

The story the little boy told House next was almost more than the diagnostician could handle hearing. The emotions it conjured up in him were the very ones he had spent nearly his entire life repressing and denying, but since much of his recovery was working on expressing and feeling emotions while regulating them in a healthy way there were breaches in the protective wall he had built around himself, leaving him more vulnerable than ever. He hadn't yet learned and become proficient at using the skills he needed to regulate them well enough.

House had to translate in his mind what he was told into a logical account from the simple language and understanding of a five-year-old. Kenny had returned from the extensive, time-consuming tests which House had ordered to keep the boy safely away from his abusive mother for as long as possible, to find said mother and Mrs. Talbot waiting in his room for him. As long as there was a witness around Eva Baker treated her son as any loving, doting parent would. When Kenny's dinner arrived his mommy helped him eat, treating him gently and talking softly. At one point during dinner Kenny had an unexpected, uncontrollable bowel movement, soiling himself and his bedding; such incidences were not unusual, especially in children and the elderly, after gastrointestinal infections and abdominal surgery where a soft diet was all the patient's system could tolerate. Baker had been attentive and understanding as a nurse was called. After everything had been cleaned up and taken care of the nurse had left them alone. The CPS worker had left the room to make a phone call. While the supervision was lifted for the five to ten minutes Talbot was gone, Baker had 'punished' her son for being a 'bad boy' and embarrassing her in front of strangers.

To punish him Kenny said that his mom had 'put a plug' in his bum using a napkin and the end of a spoon handle; she followed that up with a spanking, holding her hand over the five-year-old's mouth to keep him from crying out and being heard by medical staff. Mrs. Talbot had returned and saw that Kenny had been crying. With the offender in the room she had asked Kenny what was wrong and he told her exactly what his mother had told him to say—that he felt sad because his mommy had to go home soon. Once the two women had left for the evening, Kenny had been too frightened to tell the nursing staff what had been done to him. The only person he had trusted was his doctor, the 'nice' man who held his hand and rubbed his back the last time the child had revealed the torture he had endured from his mother.

House gritted his teeth to keep himself from yelling in fury. He took a few breaths to steady himself. "Kenny," he said softly, his eyes feeling moist. "I have to see what she did so if there is anything wrong I can treat it and make it better. I also need to call your nurse in to help me, okay?"

"Because nurses help doctors, right?" the boy said authoritatively. "That's what Miss Watt told us in school."

In spite of himself House couldn't help but smile. "That's right. Is it okay if I call the nurse now?"

Kenny tightened his hold on the diagnostician's hand. "Are you going to go away?"

House shook his head reassuringly. "I don't have to. I can use your call button."

After a moment of uncertainty the green-eyed child nodded shyly. In those eyes House saw fear and sadness. It was a look he had once worn, a lifetime ago, before he had taught himself how to steel himself, harden his heart and trust no one. He pictured Kenny as a fifty-year-old misanthropic Vicodin addict and shuddered. He pressed the call button that was clipped to the pillow close to the child's head.

As they waited Kenny drew House's hand up to his cheek and nuzzled it in his way of self-soothing. The trust in the boy's face made the diagnostician uncomfortable. He wasn't certain he was someone anyone should put too much trust in; he had a history of hurting people and letting them down. It was touching, but he had no idea what quality it was about him that the child saw and trusted.

Kenny's nurse arrived. "Hi. How can I help you, Doctor?" She regarded the diagnostician pleasantly and House couldn't help but wonder if she was new; had Cuddy suddenly gone on a hiring blitz?

"Kenny has complained about anal pain and I need you to assist me in the examination," House told her, using cloaked language that she understood but the boy didn't. The doctor didn't need a nurse so much as a witness to confirm any finding he may make of new injuries as well as to protect him from any future accusations of impropriety from an angry and vengeful incubator called Eva Baker.

"Yes, Doctor," she said, moving up to stand next to the bed opposite House. The diagnostician rose to his feet.

"Okay, Kenny. I need you to roll over onto your stomach so Dr. House can take a look, okay?" the nurse said as she helped the boy roll over without disturbing his IV line; House went to the small bathroom in the child's room and washed his hands, returned to the bed, set his cane aside and pulled a pair of gloves over his hands. The nurse then followed suit and brought a small light, a scope and tube of lubricating gel.

"Alright, Kenny," House said to the child calmly. "I'm going to lift the back of your gown from your bum." Kenny nodded his head silently. House went to lift the gown and noticed a dark spot on it: blood. He glanced at the nurse and she nodded in acknowledgement. The doctor proceeded to lift the gown to expose the child's buttocks. Whereas House had already steeled himself for what he expected to find Kenny's nurse had not; he heard a rapid intake of air as she saw it.

The cheeks of the boy's bottom were not just pink but a bright red and clear impressions of fingers could be seen, some of which had risen into welts. The area around the anus was also red and irritated and bruising could already be seen around the rim. There were traces of blood. Protruding from the anus itself was a small, paper-like stub that was stained red with more blood. House closed his eyes to block out what he saw and to steady himself. He pulled the boy's gown back down over him.

"I need you to go to the station and have your clerk contact the police and CPS before I go any further," the diagnostician whispered to the nurse. "And have Dr. Cuddy contacted as well. Then come right back."

The nurse nodded and quickly left the room.

Kenny squirmed a little. "Can I move yet, Dr. H?"

"Not yet," House answered. "Are you hurting, Kenny?"

The child shrugged and nodded.

"How bad is it hurting?" the doctor asked him next. "Just a little, bad or really bad?"

"I dunno," Kenny answered, shrugging. "It hurts."

"Once the nurse comes back I can take care of it and then give you medicine to help it not hurt so much."

A minute or two later the nurse returned and gave House a nod that told him that she had completed her task. She rejoined him at the bed.

"I need an extraction kit," he told her quietly, "a scope and a basin."

She retrieved the needed items.

"Okay, Kenny," House said to him, "I'm going to start now. It's going to be a little uncomfortable; it might even hurt a little. If it hurts too much I want you to tell me. That's important."

The little boy nodded. His body was trembling in fear. House ignored it, not allowing it to influence what he was about to do. He noticed the nurse touch Kenny's hand comfortingly.

With great care and precision the diagnostician began to slowly expand the anal opening with a retractor. Automatically the sphincter began to spasm as it was designed to do. Using forceps he carefully began to remove the foreign material from the child's colon and placed it into the basin. The napkin was not one large piece but rather several smaller pieces. As he removed each piece he took note of any bleeding, abrasions and bruising. At one point he glanced over at the nurse whose eyes frowned in disgust and horror, but she was too professional to make any sounds or comments. Kenny made small whimpers and the odd "ow" but otherwise remained unusually quiet and still for his age. Every so often House would pause and check with the boy if he was alright before proceeding again.

Once he suspected he had removed the last piece House used the hand scope to inspect the colon to make certain everything had been removed. There were no abrasions serious enough to warrant further action.

"Flush to ensure all of the smaller fibers and removed," he instructed the nurse in a murmur. "Corticosteroid cream to reduce the swelling and inflammation. Liquid Motrin for pain PRN. Bag what we removed for the police." House was having difficulty speaking; his throat was literally constricting with revulsion that he refused to visibly display. "Hold off on icing the area until the police are finished here."

She nodded, meeting his eyes briefly. They held the question she would not verbalize: _How could someone do that to this child?_ House had no answer, even if he was willing to offer her one.

"We're finished, Kenny," House told him. "The nurse is going to finish cleaning the area and then she'll give you some medication to help it hurt less." House went to the bathroom to remove his gloves and wash his hands again. The knots in his stomach pained him. There was no way that kind of thing was going to happen to the five-year-old again, even if it meant he camped out in Kenny Baker's room to make certain it didn't. He kicked himself for not fighting harder to keep the boy's mother completely away from him but he wouldn't make that mistake again. The child was safe for now, but come morning he was at risk unless the diagnostician acted. He hoped that after the police and CPS would see the evidence that Eva Baker was continuing the abuse even while under investigation and would bar her from all contact with her son, supervised or not.

Before he left House went back to the child. "You're very brave," he told Kenny softly and placed his hand on the boy's head, ruffling his hair affectionately. He noticed Kenny's nurse watching him with a hint of a smile on her face. He frowned at her. "You never saw that." House informed her.

"Saw what?" she responded, her smile disappearing. House left the room, a smirk tugging at his mouth. He liked her.

He made his way to Wilson's room, popping a Naproxen in his mouth and swallowing it dry the same way he used to take Vicodin; for all of its deleterious effects the opiate had had on him, it worked ten times better at relieving the pain in his leg than the painkillers he was allowed to take now.

* * *

Wilson lay awake in his room, fidgeting with his hands anxiously. Lisa Cuddy had visited him before heading home for the day and during their conversation she had "accidently" slipped and told him about the attack on House. Besides being greatly upset and worried by the news he was angry that the diagnostician hadn't informed him about it himself. He was also angry at Cuddy for interfering where she didn't belong, letting it slip to him knowing it would anger him to hear about it from her. The oncologist knew what House's excuses would be—that it was nothing serious, that he was fine, that he didn't want to upset Wilson with news of something that he couldn't do anything about. The oncologist wished his best friend and lover could get it through his thick skull that he _needed_ to know if something happened to the older doctor because he loved him and wanted to be there for him, sick and injured or not.

After Cuddy's visit Wilson hadn't been able to rest. He'd tried watching some TV but couldn't pay attention to anything that was on. He knew that House would be around eventually because he would camp out in the chair all night whether Wilson wanted him to or not. The diagnostician didn't like to display his emotions openly, even to him, but the man was incredibly loyal and protective of the few people he allowed himself to care about and love. That's why, Wilson knew, the older man hadn't told him about the attack in the first place.

House finally arrived around a quarter to ten. He appeared surprised to find Wilson still awake and waiting for him. There was a look of consternation on his bearded face as he set himself down in the chair next to the oncologist.

"Don't you ever sleep?" House asked him. "What's that look all about?"

The oncologist looked at his lover with anger and hurt. "Did you go home to get some rest?" he asked.

"Yes," the diagnostician answered but he couldn't hide certain tells Wilson had learned over the years that betrayed the older man's guilt about something. "I would have been here sooner but I had to treat Kenny Baker for yet another act of abuse inflicted upon him by his mother."

Shaking his head in confusion, Wilson allowed his partner to deflect for the moment. "How? I thought she was being supervised during her visits."

"Supposedly," House muttered. "The stupid worker left the mother alone with Kenny to make a phone call. In the five minutes she was gone his mother shoved a napkin up the kid's ass and spanked him for having an accidental B.M. in his bed. After I removed it I had to file the report and give a statement to the police before I could come here. The kid was terrified." The diagnostician closed his eyes briefly and shook his head.

Wilson couldn't believe how much this one particular child's predicament broke down the surly doctor's usual indifference. First there had been the nightmare, and twice now House had come to him to talk about Kenny Baker's unfortunate situation. As far as House went, he seemed to be almost obsessed about it. It made the oncologist wonder why.

However, that wasn't what he wanted to talk to his lover about.

"Come here," he told House simply, pulling on the other man's shirt. House looked at him quizzically until he realized what Wilson wanted and then smiled and willingly leaned over to place a tender kiss on his mouth. As he withdrew the oncologist grabbed the collar of his shirt and nearly tore the buttons off as he pulled it open to expose the dressing underneath. Wilson glared up at him accusingly.

"When were you going to tell me about this?" he harshly demanded of the diagnostician. "When we made love next and you couldn't hide it from me any longer?"

House pulled away and sat back in the chair, just out of Wilson's reach. He was obviously angry, glowering. "Who told you about it?" he demanded. "Was it Cuddy? It was, wasn't it?"

"What difference does it make?" the younger doctor answered. "What matters is that you didn't come and tell me yourself. Why? Why didn't you trust me enough to come to me about this?"

"It wasn't a matter of trust," House muttered. "It was _nothing_—a small skirmish. I received a couple of harmless cuts. Noddrick ended up worse off than I did. It wasn't worth bothering you about."

"Bullshit!" his lover told him. "He could have slit your throat open!"

"But he didn't!" House snapped and then softened his tone. "There's no use thinking of what could have been. A couple stitches and I'm good as new."

"_Thirty-two_ stitches," Wilson corrected. "You didn't think I would be upset when I found out?"

"That's exactly why I didn't tell you!" the diagnostician exclaimed. He exhaled loudly and ran his fingers through his very short hair. "You're the one who nearly died. I didn't want to upset you while you were recovering. Cuddy was an insensitive idiot to come running to you about this in your condition!"

The oncologist was silent for a moment. Cuddy had been an idiot. He didn't know why she had felt it was necessary to be so petty and squeal on House the way she had. She was doing a lot of things lately that were unlike her, that made no sense. That didn't take away from the disappointment Wilson felt about House not coming to him about it.

"You don't think that your getting hurt is important enough to bother me about it?" he asked the older doctor quietly. "How many times have I told you how important you are to me? I don't care if I'm breathing my last breath—I want to know when you're hurt! You are the most important person in the world to me! Greg! When you hurt, _I_ hurt. Please don't shut me out; I'm stronger than you think."

House had been staring at the floor. He looked up with his azure eyes to meet Wilson's. When he looked up at him like that the oncologist's resolve melted every time. All he wanted to do was pull the older man into bed with him and hold him close and remind him just how much he was loved. Hospital beds were not all that conducive to such desires, however.

"I'm sorry," the diagnostician whispered genuinely.

That was all Wilson needed to hear. "Come back here," he told his lover. House's somber expression warmed a little as he did as he was told, moving close enough to Wilson to kiss him. The oncologist cupped the older man's face in his hands and then began to place gentle kisses around his mouth without actually making contact with the diagnostician's lips. He could hear the increase in House's breathing and his lips quivered hungrily. Wilson knew he was driving his lover wild when he barely touched his lips with the tip of his tongue and a small groan of desire left the older man's throat. He toyed with House that way until he himself could stand it no longer, and he covered his partner's mouth with his own. House groaned again and in his excitement took over control, grabbing Wilson's head with one hand while running his fingers through the younger's dark brown hair with the other. The oncologist could feel another tongue nearly ram itself into his mouth with passion, roaming, feeling, entwining with his own. It was electrifying. He moaned himself wanting the kiss to go deeper, feeling himself beginning to respond, desiring to go beyond mere kissing. When House withdrew some but kept his lips touching Wilson's the younger man whispered, "God I wish I wasn't laid up in this damned hospital! I want you so badly!"

The older man grinned against the younger's mouth. "Me too," he told him, breathing hard. "Wait until I get you home!"

"What are you going to do to me," the oncologist asked and then bit his lover's lower lip playfully. House began to tell him in great detail what he had planned to welcome him home, his words only increasing Wilson's desire. Unable to hold back he passionately kissed the older man, leaving no doubt exactly what it was he wanted at that very moment. "Why don't you give me a little preview?" he said between kisses.

House pulled back and grinned at him. "Right here, right now? What if someone should walk in?"

Wilson gave him a lop-sided, decidedly sexy smile. "Like the idea of that happening doesn't turn you on!"

With a chuckle his lover replied, "If you think you're up to it…?"

"Believe me," the oncologist breathed, "I'm _up_ to it!"

House, still grinning, lifted the blankets and climbed under them so that his head and torso was hidden beneath them. Wilson closed his eyes and gasped when the diagnostician began to pleasure him in the most incredible ways. He moaned softly, clawing at the mattress and covers in delight.

"Oh my god, Greg!" the younger man gasped as he felt himself nearing climax. He felt a twinge of discomfort from the muscles of his abdomen as they tightened in response but he barely noticed it compared to the ecstasy he found himself in. He felt like he was about to explode any second and he began to groan louder despite the fact that he was trying to remain quiet for privacy sake. "Oh my god!...Greg…Greg…_Fuck_, _Greg! _Yes, oh god_, YES…!_"

He cried out his lover's name as he climaxed, losing complete control of himself and his mind in the magnitude of his orgasm. He couldn't think or speak but he could giggle uncontrollably until he began to come down from the high of it.

When House reemerged he had a crooked smile on his face, which was flushed from the warmth of being under the blanket and his own arousal. He moved up to be near Wilson's grinning face again and gently caressed the younger man's face.

"There's going to be one unhappy nurse who's going to be changing your bedding," he murmured. This made the oncologist laugh.

"I promise to return the favor," Wilson vowed.

"You're damned right you will," the diagnostician told him huskily. "I'm holding you to it!"

"I think I can sleep now," the oncologist told him drowsily.

"Good for you," House said with mock-anger, standing up. Wilson could see just how aroused his lover was. "I don't think I can."

"Well," Wilson answered coyly, "I think if we put our heads together we can figure out a way to solve that problem!"

House grinned with approval.


	6. Chapter 6 Intra Vires

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Some sex, some fluff and some serious stuff—enjoy!

Please comment—it makes me very happy!!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated M** for language, violence and explicit sexuality. Discretion advised.

* * *

_Def'n of Intra Vires:__ Of or referring to an action within an organization's or person's scope of authority._1

* * *

**Chapter Six--Intra Vires**

Looking through the two way window at the line-up, Dr. Gregory House thought to himself what a waste of time this entire process was. The guy had been caught red-handed. Or, rather, the diagnostician had been red-handed after touching the deep slash wound he had received from his attacker's knife. He had managed to incapacitate the thug; Dr. Noddrick, one of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital's resident bigots, had been immediately apprehended by Security personnel and handed over to the police. Having to pick his attacker out of a police line-up was redundant.

"Take your time, Doctor," a plain-clothes cop told House. "Do you see the man who attacked you in the line-up?"

The diagnostician scanned across the row of ten men holding numbered signs in front of their chests. Immediately he chose one.

"Number Three," he said with certainty, frowning. "Can I go now? There's a nap I'm late for."

The cop ignored the remark and spoke into an intercom panel on the wall, calling out the number. The man holding the 'three' sign took a step forward, glaring at the glass. He looked to be in his early thirties with a receding hairline of black and steely grey eyes. He was of average height with an athletic build.

"You're positive?" the cop confirmed. House rolled his eyes and nodded.

"That's him," the doctor answered with a sigh. The cop nodded without satisfaction and then directed another officer to have the line-up empty out and number three held. He then looked back to the victim, putting his hands on his hips.

"If we have any more questions we'll be in contact with you," House was told. "Otherwise, you'll be contacted by the District Attorney's Office regarding anything pertaining to a trial. Thank you again for you cooperation."

"Right," House responded and made his way out. He was stopped to sign a couple of forms before he was allowed to leave. As he limped to his car he scratched absently at the healing wound at his clavicle, careful not to interfere with the stitches; it itched like a sonofabitch. He had it easy compared to his lover, however. Dr. James Wilson was steadily improving but still suffering from the emergency surgery he had undergone to repair the internal injuries he had received from being attacked by Noddrick and another idiot, a first year resident named Killian.

If Wilson continued to improve at the rate he was the diagnostician would be driving him home by tomorrow evening. It would take a few weeks of recuperation before the oncologist would be able to return to work, and then only light duty for a while. House was looking forward to having him home; the truth was he had been spending the nights sleeping in the chair next to Wilson's hospital bed not just to be there as a comfort and help but also to be comforted. It was very lonely back at the Loft without him. A few kinks and sore muscles were preferable to being alone. Occasionally the diagnostician would give in to Wilson's nagging and head home for a few hours to stretch out in bed and sleep for a few hours, have a shower and change before returning back to work or sit at his lover's side.

House knew that he was probably driving Wilson a little batty with his constant vigil but the oncologist never complained for himself; his only objections pertained to the diagnostician's health and well-being. Sometimes it was annoying to be constantly mothered by the younger man, but the flip side to that was the knowledge that the older man was loved. That made all of the irritation more than worth it.

Once he returned to the hospital House had something important to discuss with Wilson, something he had been thinking over for days. It was something that would affect both of them so it was important to make certain that the younger doctor was on board with the idea. House had never in his life expected to be considering what he was, but every time he thought about it, it _felt _right. As someone who had spent the vast majority of his life trying to avoid emotions and live his life based on logic admitting that he was motivated by feelings was difficult for him to accept. Recovery from his addictions was leading him down unfamiliar and uncomfortable paths. His psychiatrist told him that he was healing; House simply felt confused.

Back at the hospital, the diagnostician headed up to his office to see how his team was doing with the new case they had been handed. The differential had been a disaster and at one point House had asked himself if this wasn't a fail and he was tripping on some kind of drug the entire time. Not a single one of his Fellows had a viable suggestion to make. He had sent Thirteen and Taub off to run a slew of tests on the patient and Chase and Foremen to search the patient's home and test for environmental agents that could be involved. This gave him a chance to get his head together before heading to Wilson's room. He was trying to prepare himself for whatever his lover's response might be to what he was about to propose.

Upon arrival he found Dr. James Wilson inclined to nearly sitting, watching television with the look in his eyes of someone who was sick and tired of watching TV but had absolutely nothing else to do. He was looking more and more like his old self every day. The color was returning to his skin, there was a healthy flush in his cheeks and his beautiful dark brown eyes had the twinkle that House—along with every nurse in the hospital—found so damned irresistible. Wilson's deep brown hair had been combed; it made the diagnostician want to run his fingers through it and mess it up all over again. When the younger man looked over at him and flashed that crooked smile that he only gave to him, House's knees became Jello and he nearly didn't make it to the chair.

"Finally!" the oncologist said with a sigh of relief. He turned the TV off with the remote control. "I was beginning to think that you had run off with another guy."

House smiled in amusement and planted a hot and sensuous kiss on his mouth, lingering long enough to stare into Wilson's eyes and comb his fingers through his hair. "You look incredible!" he breathed. "How are you feeling?"

"Really good, now," was the answer before the younger man placed his hand behind the diagnostician's head and pulled him back into a kiss that sent thrilling vibrations throughout the older man's body. Wilson's tongue teased his lover's lips, bringing a soft groan up from deep in House's throat and a greater one when the tongue actually plunged into his mouth. The kiss was incredibly passionate making both men hungry for so much more. House broke the kiss and moved his lips to Wilson's ear, breathing words that were most probably illegal in many small countries and Utah before sucking lightly on his lover's earlobe and playing with it with his tongue.

"Oh, fuck, Greg!" Wilson moaned, shivering with delight.

"I'd love to," the older man said, grinning as his lips placed wet kisses just below the other man's jaw line and his hands slid beneath the blankets, searching for the opening to the hospital gown.

Wilson laughed and grabbed at House's hands, "Jesus, you're already making my cock hard—I don't particularly want to be standing at attention when the nurse comes in with my lunch tray!"

"We can be finished before that," House argued, covering the oncologist's mouth with his own again and nearly shoving his tongue half-way down his throat. The older man himself was almost painfully erect. "The blinds are closed," he added as he came up for air, panting. "You're coming home tomorrow but I just can't wait… move over…."

"Okay," Wilson agreed between kisses, scooting over.

House had been right. Lunch was late arriving and no other interruptions ruined things for them. The diagnostician had been careful not to hurt his recovering mate and Wilson, as always, was mindful of the older man's damaged right thigh. It was a challenge on the narrow hospital bed but both were up for it. The only thing that may have caused the nurses at the nearby station a few raised eyebrows was the occasional moan, cuss word or name cried out in the throes of climax but thankfully no one came investigating; they were probably too afraid to.

Post-coitus, the men were curled around and tangled up in each other.

"I need to talk to you about something," House told Wilson quietly.

"Is this pillow talk?" Wilson teased, earning a scowl.

"Shut up, this is serious."

Wilson seemed to sense that his lover meant it. "Sorry. Look, let's talk…but do you think we could do it with you _off _of the bed? I hear the meal cart coming."

"Why?" House grumbled, edging towards the edge of the bed. "Are you ashamed of being seen in bed with me?"

"Ashamed of _you_, no," the oncologist told him honestly, "but being caught in a _hospital_ bed with you with your bare ass in the air, most definitely."

The diagnostician put on an offended front as he searched for his boxers and jeans. "I've been told I have a damn good ass."

"No argument there," Wilson told him. House caught him ogling his naked bottom half and hid a smile. "By the way, have I ever told you that you're a filthy old pervert?"

Unable to repress his grin any longer, House said as he pulled on his boxer shorts, "And you love it!"

"That goes without saying."

"So that makes you a dirty younger pervert," House stated, doing up his jeans just before the door slid open and Wilson's nurse entered carrying a tray of noxious smelling pseudo-food. She said nothing to either one of them, looking cautiously from House to Wilson and back to House with a nervous expression on her face. She set the tray down in front of Wilson and then scurried out like a mouse. The lovers exchanged looks and then burst out laughing.

"I guess they heard us!" the oncologist said when he breathed between laughs. "Ow, my stitches!"

"No shit, Sherlock!" the diagnostician said, dropping into the chair, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "Could it possibly have been when you practically screamed, 'Faster, Baby, _pleeease_'?"

Wilson glared at him indignantly. "I never said that!"

"I'll grab a wheelchair and we'll go ask them at the nursing station!" House challenged good-naturedly. "I bet you five hours of clinic duty that you did!"

The men laughed some more and then sobered. Wilson lifted the lid off of one of the items on his tray and stabbed at it tentatively with his fork. The diagnostician took this as his opportunity to broach the subject he had come to talk with him about.

"You know that kid I'm been treating?"

Wilson looked at him and nodded. "Yes…Kenny, isn't it? The one whose mother abused him?"

House nodded. He had no idea what to say, what the right words were. Perhaps if he caught Wilson up to date on what was happening with the boy, he would be able to find the words.

"His mother is facing criminal charges," he told the oncologist. "Even if she cops a plea she'll get jail time. CPS has told me that she'll never get him back."

"Good," the younger man said. He blew on his spoonful of soup before putting it in his mouth. "She should get life for what she's done."

House looked at his lover quizzically. "I thought you'd be all compassionate, telling me that she needs help, not prison!"

"Because I've always had a soft spot for grown adults who take out their frustration by beating their children!" Wilson retorted sarcastically. "I'm not a complete bleeding heart, you know."

"Yeah, but—" the older man said, taken aback. He was cut off mid-sentence.

"I also know how personally you've taken this case," the younger man told him, "I know you've spent literally hours just sitting with him. I know that for the past three days you've taken up reading to him at bedtime, you old softy."

Amazed, House shook his head and asked, "How do you know about--?"

"About the bedtime stories?" Wilson finished for him, smiling slightly. "I have my spies following every move you make. I'm really very controlling and possessive, you know."

House smirked and rolled his eyes, "It's always the quiet ones you who are the stalkers! Let me guess—Thirteen?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say," Wilson teased, straight-faced. "I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you!"

"Then what Baby would go faster for you?" House retorted, making a face. "I spoil you."

The oncologist chuckled, shaking his head. He quickly became serious again. "What is it about Kenny that affects you so much?"

This had been one of the questions the diagnostician had been afraid of being asked. There were things that he had never told his lover about, things that were so deeply personal that he hadn't been able to tell even his closest of confidants. House knew that eventually he would end up having to talk to Wilson about the dark shadows of his past, but now that he found himself at that place he wasn't certain that he could go ahead with it.

Wilson pushed the food tray aside and touched the older man's chin gently, turning his face to face him, searching for his eyes.

"_When_ are you going to _trust_ me?" The intensity of Wilson's voice hurt House. "This is something you need to talk about and I won't use what you tell me to hurt you. In the past I know that hasn't always been true, but over the past two years I've changed…not as much as you, maybe, but I have. If you can't trust me…how is this going to work?"

A cynical remark occurred to the older man but he didn't have the heart to say it. Wilson was right…if he couldn't tell him, the man who was his best friend and lover, the truth then who could he tell? House hated taking chances that could bring pain, but he knew that by avoiding the possibility of great hurt most of his adult life he had also missed out on great joy along the way. He wished he could press pause on this conversation and call Nolan for advice but he couldn't; he was going to have to handle this one all on his own.

"Okay," House whispered. "But don't say anything until I'm done and if I don't want to answer any questions after, don't push me."

His lover nodded solemnly in agreement. This was a turning point in their relationship. Trust was going to be tested and that was a precious thing that if abused could end the relationship of a lifetime for both men. Blue eyes met brown and the moment that passed between them was just as intimate as the first time they made love...perhaps even more so.

House took a deep breath and then began, forcing himself to keep looking at Wilson. "You know how my relationship with my Dad was pretty much fucked up? Well, he wasn't just a hard ass who had to raise another man's son as his own. He…he…hurt me."

Wilson's eyes searched his face and House could tell that the younger man desperately wanted to ask him a question but was respecting his request and was remaining silent instead.

"He called it discipline," the diagnostician continued after a brief pause. His stomach was tried up in knots and he had to swallow hard to keep himself under control. "He said that he was going to teach me respect and how to be a man. Some of his methods were unconventional, though most of the time he'd strap me with his belt until my ass was raw and swollen. One time he forced me into a bathtub full of ice water as punishment. He held me in there for over an hour."

"Oh my god…!" Wilson whispered, his face contorting with anger and pain.

"I begged him to let me out. I begged him for his forgiveness. The cold hurt so bad…." House's voice trailed off as he tried to block the pain that came with the memories. "One time he made me stand at attention for twelve hours. I wasn't allowed to move, to make so much as a whimper or to use the bathroom. On a few occasions he would punish me by making me sleep in the yard. Once, when I was Kenny's age, he gave me this plastic bayonet rifle for my birthday. I hated it and when he was away from home I broke it and buried it in the backyard, hoping he wouldn't notice…he found it. My punishment was to dig my own grave of sorts--."

"_Grave_!" the oncologist echoed in disbelief. "What does that mean?"

House felt short of breath and a huge lump in his throat threatened to bring with it tears. He had to look away from his lover's intense gaze if he was going to be able to continue.

"He made me dig a hole big enough for me to lie in with my bare hands. Then he put me into the hole and began to bury me--."

"Greg, no!" Wilson was horrified. His voice held anger but it wasn't for the older man.

The diagnostician nodded, and continued, not having truly stopped. "He buried me entirely except for an air hole. I was blind and deaf. It was nighttime and cold. He left me out there like that all night. It began to rain and water would come in the hole and the dirt washed in with it and I could only breathe if I swallowed the mud." House couldn't fight the tears anymore. "Damnit. Damnit!"

Wilson grabbed him and pulled him out of his chair and into an embrace. House resisted at first but then relaxed and cried into the crook of his lover's neck. They remained like that for quite some time, Wilson holding him close, stroking his short graying hair and whispering soothingly in his ears.

"I didn't know. I'm so sorry…it's alright…shh, you're safe now, Greg. I won't let anyone hurt you like that again…I love you, Baby…I love you! Now I think I understand…so much pain….!"

House had never felt so loved in his entire life and he clung to the oncologist, not wanting to let go. Eventually his crying subsided and the diagnostician pulled back. Wilson still kept him close, however. He grabbed a napkin from his food tray and used it to gently dry the tears off of the older man's face.

Wilson had a revelation. "That's what your nightmare was our first night--Kenny was forced to eat dirt by his mother and it brought back memories of being buried and drinking mud! That's why that little boy is so important to you. How could I have missed that--?"

Shaking his head, House argued, "How could you have known anything, Jimmy?…You didn't know."

"But now I _do!_" the oncologist told him. "How did you hold this all in for so long? Greg, did your mother know that this was happening?"

He nodded in response. "She knew." He whispered and didn't want to discuss that any further than that. "Kenny didn't deserve what happened to him."

"Neither did you!" Wilson stressed. "Do you understand that? You could have been the worst behaved child and still didn't deserve to be hurt like that—by a parent, no less."

"I was a pain in the ass," the older man told him, shrugging, trying to find some kind of justification for what he had endured at his father's hands, but unable to convince Wilson, much less himself. He had been a difficult child and challenged his parent's authority just as much as he challenged authority now, but the discipline that he had received was in no way appropriate for the crime. Hours of therapy with Nolan had focused on this fact, trying to drive it home to him.

"You were a kid," Wilson insisted. "Just like Kenny."

House nodded. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and squelch any further possibility of tears returning. It was time to get to the point.

"Kenny has no family. I don't think it's even known who his father is. He's going to end up in a state facility until foster parents can be found for him, and right now he's at the bottom of a very long list for placement. I don't want that for him." The diagnostician took a deep breath and then held it as he said. "I want to foster him until a decent home can be found." There, it was said. He exhaled audibly. Now he had to wait for his partner's reaction.

The younger man stared at him in stunned silence, filling his cheeks with air before blowing it out slowly. His expression held no anger but he did seem uncertain.

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Wilson asked carefully. "You're his doctor. Isn't this a matter of a conflict of interest?"

House rolled his eyes and glared. "You mean like donating a chunk of your liver to one of your cancer patients who used a pseudo-friendship and guilt to get you to do it?"

Wilson opened his mouth to argue but stopped short. He sighed silently and nodded grudgingly.

"Touché."

They were both silent for a moment and the anticipation was nearly driving the older man nuts.

"Look, if you don't want me to do it," House told his lover quietly, "just say so. We both have to agree to this."

"What do you know about raising a child?" Wilson asked him gently. "What do I know about it for that matter? It's not like adopting a puppy…there's a lot involved."

The diagnostician nodded, looking down at his lap. Wilson was giving his answer without giving his answer, something he tended to do when he didn't want to look like the bad guy. Heaven forbid Boy Wonder Oncologist should appear the bad guy. He set his jaw.

"Forget it," House said deeply, looking back up at the younger man. "You're right…it's a stupid idea." He rose to his feet. "Kenny deserves someone who knows what he's doing…."

"Greg, I didn't say that!" Wilson protested. "Come on, sit down!"

"Can't," House told him, needing to just get out of there, to be alone to think. "Gotta go check on my idiots, make certain they're not killing our new patient." He grabbed his cane and limped towards the door, sliding it open.

Wilson insisted, "We have to talk more about this!"

The diagnostician shook his head. "Can't. Got work to do. I'll…I'll see you later." Before Wilson could say anything more he left the room and slid the door shut—perhaps a little too firmly but not actually slamming it. He walked down the corridor a short distance and then stopped, taking a couple of steadying breaths. He really needed to talk to someone, but his next appointment with Nolan wasn't for another three days and he didn't know who else would be willing to sit with a misanthropic bastard and listen to him rant. He used to feel half-ways comfortable going to Cuddy, but he didn't feel that way anymore. Perhaps a walk would suffice. Before the infarction he would go for a bone-aching run to burn off the anger and hurt energy. That option was no longer an option. Neither was slipping back into using peace in a pill to numb himself for a while.

He headed for the elevators. Once he stepped off into the main lobby he limped towards the main doors. Through the glass he could see that a cold rain shower mixed with the odd confused snowflake was falling from the grey sky. House considered returning to his office to grab his jacket but then decided not to. A brisk walk would keep him warm enough and he certainly wasn't made of sugar so he wouldn't melt in the rain. He had to get out of the hospital for a while. He wasn't certain why that was so important but it was.

As he passed Cuddy's office he automatically glanced in to see if she was there—it was a habit developed over years of looking out for her when trying to avoid her. She was seated at her desk, looking very official and serious. She was speaking to three men seated in front of her, all in suits. He knew the identity of one of them but the other two he didn't recognize. House was tempted to stop and watch but he didn't know how long the meeting would take and he didn't have the patience to find out.

Passing individuals on their way in, he stepped out into the elements. The rain had washed away any remaining ice on the sidewalks, much to his relief. Ice and cripples didn't mix. Ignoring the cold droplets on the back of his neck he limped quickly down the sidewalk away from the institution. It didn't take long for the moisture to reach his skin through his clothes and bring goosebumps out, but it was a good feeling—it was distracting and that's exactly what he was looking for…something to take his mind off of his conversation with Wilson.

People he passed on the sidewalk were pulling their jackets closer to their bodies or huddling underneath the protection of their umbrellas. Most of them stared at him quizzically, some with derision. He imagined they were thinking to themselves, _What kind of idiot goes out on day like this without a jacket?_

"An idiot trying to avoid swiping a prescription of painkillers from the pharmacy, that's who," he muttered under his breath.

He knew where he was headed without really thinking about it…the picnic table he frequented in the running park not far from PPTH. He would torture himself by watching the able-bodied running fanatics jog past him, remembering how good it felt to be one of them: the hardness of the path as his running shoes hit, the vibration of that contact rising up both legs painlessly, a bit of a burn as his leg muscles were exerted, body erect, core engaged, arms pumping rhythmically, his lungs inflating and deflating with every light pant, a wonderful light burn as he pushed himself a little harder than usual, his heart rate elevated accordingly, blood pumping through every blood vessel, his body protesting a little to the exertion, sweat staining the front and back of his shirt where it made contact with his skin and beneath his armpits, droplets falling from his brow and down his face in salty rivulets, and finally the endorphin release and runner's high that eventually arrives, giving the needed second wind to continue. Just thinking about it brought a fond smile to his lips…but the pain in his ruined thigh reminded him that that's all it was and forever would be—a memory—bringing the frown to his brow and pulling the corners of his mouth down.

Once he reached the picnic table he sat down to rest his protesting leg a while. He felt the rain on the seat soak through his jeans and boxers. Now _that_ was uncomfortable! House forced himself to ignore it, however. So he looked like he pissed his pants, so what? It would give his team something to snicker about behind his back, his contribution to making their day just that much funnier.

He wasn't quite as angry at Wilson as he had been just a few minutes earlier. He acknowledged that it had been quite the revelation he had given the younger man and then a huge request immediately after. How did he expect him to act? Hey, Jimmy, we've just added sex to our intimate relationship, we've both been physically assaulted as a result and oh, by the way, I want to bring a five-year-old into the mix? It was surprising to the diagnostician that Wilson hadn't completely freaked out by the mere suggestion! House had known before he even took the idea to his partner that it was a huge responsibility to take on and the oncologist would need time to work through everything that could go wrong before coming to a final decision. So why had his lover's reaction surprised the older man so? Why was he left so out of sorts by Wilson's doubts? Did he expect him to just jump at the idea simply because he now understood how important it was to House to keep Kenny from becoming another him down the road?

Yes.

It was an unreasonable expectation, House knew. Fostering a child for what could turn out to be a very long time just because of a bad dream and a painful past of his own simply wasn't logical, and he had always prided himself on being able to overrule emotion and stick to the logical. What had changed? Why did it feel right in his heart and why couldn't he just mentally overrule that anymore?...Because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. _Damn it, Nolan! What have you done to me? How is this better?_

"Me," House scoffed half-hearted, muttering, "a parental figure! I've completely lost my mind!"

"Not necessarily," a voice said from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Dr. Remy Hadley, jacket clad and umbrella covered, smiling crookedly at him. "Especially with Wilson around to be the adult in the home!"

"Ha, ha," House responded cynically, rolling his eyes and returning them to the running path in front of him. "I take it you're done running the tests I told you to do because you love working for me so much and wouldn't want to be looking for another job."

"Yup," she told him, sitting down next to him, careful not to bump him with the umbrella; she tried to lift it high enough to cover her boss as well.

"Don't bother," he told her. "It's like putting a condom on after having sex. So, what are the results?"

"Taub is still working on it. I came to tell you that our patient just exhibited a new symptom—disorientation."

"It's the fever," House told her off-hand without really thinking about it.

"Nope," she informed him, shaking her head. "Her fever is down a full degree. Not the fever."

House nodded, trying to think about what the new symptom meant in combination with the others but he couldn't focus. "You could have paged me or called me on my cell instead of following me out here in this weather in _those_ shoes." He nodded at the expensive suede flats she wore.

Realizing that she was busted, Thirteen shrugged. "I was coming from the lab when I saw you on your way out without your jacket and that look you get on your face when you're running away from something, so I grabbed my jacket and umbrella; I thought I'd satisfy my curiosity."

"How do you know what my facial expressions mean?" he grumped, refusing to look at her. He didn't want to be doing this—this conversation with her. His business was his business and he didn't appreciate intrusions, even though he knew her interest was more than simple curiosity. She was Wilson and his ally, it seemed, and that apparently came with her concern for the both of them. This was a dynamic with Thirteen he had never expected.

"I've known you for over two years now," Thirteen informed him. "Despite what people may think, you're not _that_ impossible to fathom—not if one takes the time to pay attention. And don't state the obvious by telling me this is none of my business. You're moodier the last couple of days than you have been in a long time."

"Didn't your father warn you against the troubles associated with nosiness?" House sniped, deflecting.

"Nope," she said again, an amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She was undeterred. "So are you going to tell me what's up or do I have to ask Wilson?"

House glared at her, feeling a mixture of irritation and…comfort? "Why do you care?"

Thirteen shook her head, looking away from him to follow two women as they ran past the picnic table. "I have no idea. Maybe it's some rare new disease going around. I think the cure could be answering the question instead of avoiding it."

"You're annoying."

"So I've been told," she agreed. "Or, you could try to run away from me, but I'm faster than you so that may not work. Come on…you know it will help to talk, even if that's the last thing in the world you want to do. Sometimes medicine tastes yucky."

The diagnostician sighed, shaking his head in frustration. It seemed that he wasn't going to win this argument so save time and a lot more aggravation he conceded.

"I talked to Wilson," he said slowly, refusing to look at her, "about how I want to…foster Kenny Baker."

Thirteen's face lit up with pleasant surprise. "That's so sweet!"

"Oh god," House mumbled, rolling his eyes, "I knew I shouldn't have told you."

She punched him playfully in the arm.

"Ouch," he said glumly, fighting a smile.

"So that's what you meant by being a parental figure," she said, nodding. "Don't tell anyone I said this because I'll deny it, but with the change I've seen in you over the past six months, I think you'd make a good parental figure."

"I'm a drug addict." The diagnostician reminded her, beginning to shiver.

"Recovering drug addict," she corrected him.

"You sound like Wilson," House said and then sighed. "It's a moot point anyway. He doesn't want to do it."

The younger doctor shook her head, brushing a long strand of brown hair off of her cheek and behind one ear. "He said that?"

"Not in so many words," the diagnostician answered, "but that was the general message."

Thirteen looked puzzled as she thought over what he said. The rain was coming down harder now and hit the asphalt running path like hundreds of little drumsticks against the membrane of a hand drum. She felt a bit chilled, and she was dressed appropriately—House looked like a drowned rat and she could see him shivering without complaint.

"That's odd," she commented, "because when I talked with him yesterday he seemed pleased to hear about the amount of time you were spending with Kenny."

"I knew it was you!" House announced, earning a questioning look; he didn't feel like explaining.

"Okay," Thirteen said, letting it pass. "Anyway, he sounded very positive about the bond you've formed with Kenny. What exactly were the words he used with you?"

House shrugged. He really didn't see the point of rehashing it and besides, he was really feeling the cold now. He rose to his feet, grabbed his cane and began limping back towards the hospital. Thirteen joined him, obviously not about to allow him to dodge the question.

Sighing, he recounted, "He started by asking me if I thought it was a good idea and used the whole conflict of interest argument. I reminded him that he wasn't one to be lecturing about conflict of interest. Then he asked me what I knew about raising a kid and said it was different from getting a dog."

Nodding, Thirteen took in the information. "And what else did he say?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" she echoed, perplexed.

The diagnostician shrugged and coughed. "I walked out of the room…I gave him some song and dance about having to get back to work. The truth is, I was getting angry and I really didn't want to argue with him about it."

"So he didn't actually say that he didn't want to foster Kenny with you," the younger doctor pointed out. "He just basically wanted to know how much thought you put into this. Right? You do see that, don't you?"

House stopped walking and looked at her, genuinely perplexed. What was the difference? The only reason Wilson had been questioning it was because he didn't want to do it but was too chicken to actually come out and say that. He told this to Thirteen.

"It's not the same thing at all," she told him, shaking her head. "You men…you just don't know how to read between the lines! You jumped to a conclusion that doesn't follow from the information. When I do that during a differential you call me an idiot, you idiot! Look, I can't speak for Wilson, but I think you gave up too quickly and just assumed the worst. Go back and talk to him…and don't run away this time. I can pretty much guarantee you that he loves you and won't just toss out something you feel this strongly about without at least thinking about it."

They continued walking towards the hospital again. It was silent between them for a few moments as House worked through what she had said. It was possible that she had a point. _No, damn_ _it!_ He told himself in frustration, _she does have a point! Go back and at least hear him out this time!_

He smirked at how ridiculous the situation he found himself in was. "I can't believe I'm taking relationship advice from anyone, much less you," he told Thirteen with a shake of his head. "When was the last time you and Foreman actually dealt with the sexual tension you force the rest of us to tolerate?"

It was Thirteen's turn to smirk and shake her head. "Yeah, well, it's a lot easier to give out advice than to take your own and apply it."

House looked at her seriously. "Apply it," he told her. "Consider it an order from your boss—neither one of you is at your best as doctors when you can't even stand to be in the same room with each other."

The younger doctor gave him a sheepish grin and then did something she had never done before with him—she wrapped her right arm around his left one affectionately. House's first impulse was to pull away—that was always his first impulse when someone touched him, especially unexpectedly—but refrained at the last moment. There hadn't been many times in his life when someone would hold his hand or give him a hug just for the hell of it, and while he was very unaccustomed to it, he had to admit that it did feel good.

_Is this what having a friend is like?_ He asked himself. Besides Wilson, and maybe Cuddy, it had been a long time since he'd actually had one. He secretly hoped so, but he wasn't about to admit it.

"God, you have scrawny arms," he said to Thirteen sarcastically. "Have you and food ever been introduced?"

She sighed, shaking her head and saying nothing. House looked away from her because he couldn't help but smile and he didn't want her to see it.

Back at the hospital, Thirteen headed to the lab to see if Taub was finished with the results while House headed in the direction of the nearest supply room to grab some dry scrubs to put on instead of the soaked clothing he currently wore. Once he was dry and a little more comfortable he decided to check on Cuddy to find out what was up with the suits she had been meeting with. Through the glass door to her office he could see that she was alone talking on the phone. He walked into her office without knocking, as usual, and was about to say something obnoxious in greeting when the Dean of Medicine looked up at him in warning and put a finger to her lips.

House decided to be a good boy and remain quiet. He took a seat beside her desk and elevated his feet up, resting them on an open patient file. Cuddy glared at him with her pretty grayish blue eyes and slapped his feet in reproach; House didn't budge.

"Yes," she said into the phone in her most professional tone of voice, "Well you'll have to talk to our lawyer about that, but I can assure you that I _do_ have the legal authority to dismiss your client. The hospital's hiring policy was presented very clearly to him when he was hired—what? No, that doesn't matter. We kept our part of the contract by suspending him with pay until the police investigation was complete but the moment charges were laid the Professional conduct clause gave me the right---! Yes, well , have fun with that Mr. Dwyer. Good-day!" She hung up the phone hard. "You can stick your lawsuit up your ass, that's what!" she yelled at the phone.

House watched this with a look of amusement in his eyes and a twisted smirk on his face. "I don't think that's how you make friends and influence people," he told her sardonically.

Cuddy cast him her "look of death" and lifted his feet, pulling the file out from underneath them. "Get your feet off of my desk!" she snapped, annoyed.

"My leg hurts," he protested, playing the cripple card. "Elevation helps."

"So go elevate it on your own desk!" she told him. "I've got work to do! So do you, if I'm not mistaken. You currently have a case—go work it."

"I will as soon as you tell me who the suits were you had in here a while ago," House told her. "One of them was Killian, wasn't it?"

She nodded, sitting down behind her desk and turning to her computer. "It was. The other two were his lawyer and Noddrick's. They were here protesting the fact that I fired the both of them yesterday. They seem to think that nearly killing two of this hospital's department heads isn't deserving of dismissal. They're threatening to sue the hospital for wrongful dismissal and breach of contract."

"Do they have a leg to stand on?" the Chief of Diagnostic medicine asked her, pleased to hear that the two Nazis that had attacked both Wilson and him were no longer on the hospital's payroll.

"As I just finished telling one of them," Cuddy answered as she began typing into the computer, "they don't. They violated their contracts of employment, not me. Unprofessional conduct is unprofessional conduct and I had every legal right and obligation to fire them. The lawsuit is just a pressure tactic. They know it won't stand under scrutiny." She looked away from the monitor to House. "How is Wilson doing today, anyway? I meant to get down there to see him at lunch but those shysters showed up unexpectedly and through my entire schedule off."

"Good," House answered her. "He's looking a lot better. In fact, I'm taking him home tomorrow."

"I had heard that," she told him, nodding her head-full of dark brown hair. "That's awesome! Do you have arrangements made for his home care while you're at work?"

"We're all set," he assured her.

"So, how are the two of you doing?" Cuddy asked next, looking back at the computer monitor again. House watched her face. She was genuinely interested in knowing but he wasn't certain what her motive was for asking. He wanted to believe that it was innocent, but….

"We're good, Cuddy," he answered simply, with no sarcasm or spite. The Dean of Medicine looked at him again, meeting his gaze.

"Good," she said, smiling warmly. "I mean that."

House didn't say anything to that. Instead, he turned the question around on her.

"How are you and Lucas doing?"

"Good," she answered quickly, maybe a little too quickly, but her expression appeared genuine. "Everything seems to be working out fine."

House smiled slightly and then brought his feet down off of her desk. He clutched his cane in his right hand and stood up. "Good," he told her, "and I mean that, too."

She looked up at him with fond appreciation. "Thanks, House."

He nodded, always uncomfortable with the touchy-feely. "Gotta go talk to Wilson about adopting a puppy," he told her as he walked to the door.

"A puppy?" Cuddy asked him, raising an eyebrow.

The diagnostician smirked. "It's kinda weird to paper-train a boy, Cuddy." He opened the door and walked out, feeling her confused stare bore into his back as he did. He loved playing mind games.

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1 Taken from Buisinessdictionary(dot)com.


	7. Chapter 7 Implied Consent

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: This Chapter is a little fluffy but I like it and I hope you do too! Please comment—it makes me very happy!!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated: M** for language, violence and explicit sexuality. Discretion advised.

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_Def'n of Implied Consent:__ (n) A manifestation of consent to something through conduct, including inaction or silence._

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**Chapter Seven--Implied Consent**

Opening the door to the loft Dr. Gregory House then stepped aside and allowed Dr. James Wilson enter their home first. The diagnostician followed him carrying a plastic bag holding the oncologist's personal items in his left hand and his own cane in the right. He shut the door and then set down the bag to help Wilson remove his jacket and then hung it along with his own. Wilson stepped further in leaving the foyer and entering the living room. He stopped short, gaping in surprise at what he found. House smiled as he followed, knowing in advance what it was his lover was seeing.

The Carrot-puke sofa was no more. In its place was a sleek and sophisticated leather three-seat sofa in a smooth cream color that went well with practically every other piece of furniture Wilson had chosen. House quickly hid his smile when Wilson turned to look at him, mouth still agape.

"Quit looking at me like a baby bird waiting for regurgitated worm," House said, frowning. "Do you like it or not?"

Wilson closed his mouth and nodded, a pleased smile emerging on his face. "It's exactly what I had pictured in my mind that I wanted. How did you know?"

The diagnostician shrugged nonchalantly, moving past his best friend. He dropped onto the sofa in his traditional place near the right arm and elevated his feet on the coffee table, rubbing his aching thigh. "I didn't. I didn't have a clue--that's why I called Bonnie and had her help me pick it out."

At the mention of Wilson's ex-wife the oncologist looked at his lover with renewed amazement.

"But you _hate_ Bonnie," the younger man said, shaking his head, "about as much as you hate shopping!"

"I shop!" House argued, crossing in arms in front of him.

"Porn magazines and potato chips doesn't count," Wilson told him sarcastically.

"If you go to a cashier to pay for something, it's shopping," the older man informed him. "Besides, she wanted this girly beige and persimmon monstrosity that you would have absolutely loved but which would have triggered my gag reflex every time I'd look at it. So I closed my eyes, pointed and turned around a few times before stopping. Whichever sofa I ended up pointing at I bought. Surprise!"

Wilson sat down on the sofa next to him and nodded in approval. "It's comfortable—neither too soft nor too firm."

"Does that mean you want warm porridge for dinner, Goldilocks?" House smirked.

"There's just one problem," Wilson told him, a frown beginning to form on his face. _Uh oh, _House thought. _What did I screw up on now?_ In truth he had spent nearly two hours in the furniture store one evening with Bonnie nattering in his ear the entire time, sweating over which one his lover would choose had he been there instead of in the hospital. He not only wanted the younger man to like it, he wanted him to love it.

"What?"

"The seat is kind of narrow," the oncologist told him. "It's fine for sitting, but not very good for lying on."

"I don't plan on sleeping on the sofa," House informed him. "If we have an argument you can sleep out here."

Wilson grinned, shaking his head. "No. I wasn't thinking about…sleeping."

House looked at him perplexedly and then realized what his lover had been thinking about. His eyebrows arched on his face and he nodded slowly. "Ohh…well, what it lacks in breadth it more than makes up for in length." He wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "Allow me to demonstrate." He slid towards the younger man placed his hands on his forearms, leaning him down. The older man then lifted Wilson's legs up and laid himself on top of his lover carefully so that his bad leg wasn't cramped and most of his weight was supported on his lower arms and left leg. The blue-eyes stared down into brown ones; both sets were gleaming with intense interest.

"See?" the diagnostician said with a suggestive smile. "Lots of leg room and we can both lie on our sides together to watch TV with plenty of room to spare. Am I too heavy for your stitches?"

"No," Wilson murmured, caressing House's bearded cheek lovingly. "You're right, the sofa's perfect. Thank you!"

House brought his face close enough to his partner's so that his lips barely brushed the other man's as he spoke. "I'm _always_ right, _you're_ perfect, and you're welcome." He gently covered the oncologist's mouth with his own, kissing him deeply and leisurely, teasing with his tongue and lips. He felt Wilson bring his other hand up and comb his fingers through the diagnostician's closely cropped graying hair. It was Wilson who asked for permission with his tongue tickling House's upper lip and the other man granted it, parting his mouth and allowing said tongue to enter deeply to tangle, tickle and wrestle with its mate.

The diagnostician groaned from deep in his throat as his desire grew quickly. His heart accelerated as did his breathing. Leaning onto his right arm, he used his left to slip under the hem of Wilson's polo top and move slowly against his abdomen to his chest. The younger man shivered with delight. House's fingers played in the hair that extended from the other man's navel up to a thick patch on his chest. He loved the feel of it between his fingers and brushing across his palm. His hand moved slowly to one of Wilson's nipples and began to trace the areola with a feather-light touch that he knew drove his partner wild.

Moaning accordingly, the oncologist drew his mouth away from the other's and began to leave hot, juicy kisses along House's jawline. The diagnostician was breathing heavily now, hardening against Wilson's growing erection.

"Oh, god, Jimmy!" House breathed. "Let's…let's take this to the bedroom!" Wilson nodded and House carefully slid off of the younger man to the floor and then slowly stood up. He grabbed his lover's hands and helped him to his feet. Immediately their hands were all over each other in a frantic rush to remove each others' clothes as they moved towards their bedroom. House's cane was left abandoned by the sofa, earning help in walking from his lover. He felt the increasing arousal and pressure as his penis twitched aching to be touched; he nearly tore Wilson's shirt off of him and made quick work of removing his undershirt as well. His hands went for the button on the fly of the oncologist's trousers, every so often stopping to rub his erection through the material. Wilson nearly growled and pushed House against the corridor wall, his lips and teeth caressing and then hungrily sucking the crook of the older man's neck; occasionally he would bite the skin lightly as his excitement built. His hands lifted the diagnostician's t-shirt upwards and then he parted from him long enough to lift it over his head, tossing it aside. His mouth found one of House's nipples which he twirled his tongue around and then suckled gently. He heard the older man's breath catch; almost desperately, the older man pushed the younger away and grabbed his arm, pulling him the rest of the way to the bed. Wilson took charge at that point and House was more than happy to submit to him.

The truth was House absolutely loved it when Wilson was aggressive and took control—it didn't happen all that often but when it did it ended up being some of the best sex the diagnostician had ever had. Wilson was on him, his mouth hard on his own, hungry, so very hungry! House lowered the zipper on the oncologist's pants and began to push them downwards towards his knees. They were quickly removed the rest of the way by their owner, as were the boxer shorts. House stared at his lover's throbbing erection and it nearly drove him over the edge.

"Quickly!" House gasped as Wilson pulled his bottoms off as well and then crawled onto him, grinding his erection against the older man's. "I don't think…I don't think…." House panted, a sheen of sweat covering his body. The younger man knew what he meant and brought his mouth down to his lover's erection. House arched his back and his eyes rolled back into his head. One of his hands was buried in Wilson's thick dark brown head of hair, the other grabbing at the duvet beneath him. As he neared climax, the diagnostician groaned and gasped in ecstasy, occasionally crying out verbally culminating in what was a keening cry of 'James!' as he climaxed. Wilson pulled away in time and continued the stroking with his hand as House ejaculated. The older man was actually giggling a little as he fully appreciated his orgasm.

Wilson was nearly going mad with needing to be taken care of. It was wordlessly agreed that he would top the diagnostician, who was already rolling over, taking care of not jarring his leg. The oncologist carefully entered his lover and then gradually with more fervor rocked, holding onto the other's hips for support. House moaned in pleasure and Wilson gasped and moaned and then because to curse. When he came he said something unintelligible, almost sounding like he was crying.

After, House lay with his head on his lover's chest, his arms around his waist. Wilson had an arm wrapped around the older man's shoulder and his other hand stroking his hair gently. The sound of the oncologist's slowing heartbeat was lulling House to sleep. When he awoke again it was because he felt a chill. His lover was sound asleep. Rather than wake him, the diagnostician sleepily pulled the blankets from the edge of the bed over top of himself, snuggled closer to Wilson and went back to sleep.

When he awoke again he was alone on the bed. The light was off, the door closed. House realized that he was lying properly under the bedding, his head on his pillow. The room darkening curtains were drawn over the window. He lifted his head to look at the red LED numbers on his alarm-clock. It read 7:26. It had to be later than that, House decided. He rolled out of bed and walked to the window. He pulled the curtain aside and was nearly blinded by the brightness outside compared to the near black of the bedroom. He closed his eyes instinctively, and then opened them again slower. He felt his pupils constrict as they adjusted to the change in illumination. It definitely meant that it was not seven-thirty-six in the evening. He had slept through the night without being disturbed by any pain in his leg. It hurt now, though. He went to the ensuite and grabbed his bottle of Naproxen, popped one into his mouth and dry-swallowed it down. He put the jar back into the cabinet. After using the toilet and washing his hands he was nearly awake.

Pulling a t-shirt and boxers on, he sleepily hobbled out of the bedroom and down the corridor to the living room to grab his cane where he had left it the night before and then limped to the kitchen, where he heard some movement. He found Wilson, clad in his robe, cooking something on the stove. The coffee pot was brewing and smelled incredible. He padded barefoot across the cool floor to the stove. The oncologist was frying bacon. It, too, smelled wonderful. House leaned in and kissed his lover on the cheek, earning a smile.

"'Morning," he mumbled to the cook. "What are you doing up so early and cooking? You're supposed to be recovering. Go sit down and I'll finish this."

"I am bored out of my mind just sitting or laying around 'recovering'!" Wilson told him, shaking his head. "Leave me alone—I feel fine. If I start to feel tired I'll sit down."

The older man nodded. He knew how much he hated to be babied when he was sick or in pain so he wouldn't hover over the younger man, knowing that he was sensible enough to rest when he needed to. Instead House went to the cabinet and grabbed his favorite mug and then proceeded to pour himself some coffee. He dumped two rounded teaspoons-full of sugar in and then stirred it up well. Black and sweet, just the way he liked it.

"You're going to boost your triglyceride levels that way," Wilson told him knowingly without looking. "Something a man your age should be avoiding."

"Meh," was the response as the diagnostician went to the kitchen table and sat down. The morning paper was already there waiting for him; he knew he was spoiled and loved it. He opened it to the sports section, checking out the hockey stats.

"I was thinking about your old bedroom," Wilson said as he cooked, "about what to do with it now that you're not using it anymore. You were saying that you'd like to convert it to a study and bring your piano over from your apartment to put in there. I think your piano would look better in the living room in front of the large windows. I think there's plenty of room."

"Uh huh," House responded, only half-hearing what his partner was saying.

"Eggs or pancakes, Greg?"

"Pancakes are for Saturdays," the older man told him. "Eggs."

The younger man went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of them, returning to the stove.

"I was thinking of turning it into a guest room," Wilson continued, "or maybe an office. What do you think?"

House frowned, growing annoyed. What the hell did he care what was done with the space? He had a place to sit, eat, sleep and crap…what else did a guy really need? Oh, yes, he needed a place for his vintage album collection, piano and guitars—but that was all.

"Do whatever you want with it," the diagnostician told him, trying not to sound annoyed and failing. "Just no heavy lifting for the next six weeks, doctor's orders. If you need something moved tell me and I'll drag Foreman and Chase over here to do it."

The oncologist smirked, shaking his head. "I'm certain they'll just love that. After all, that's what they spent all that time in med school for—to become furniture movers."

"They'll have something to fall back on if medicine doesn't pan out for them," House quipped; he finished his coffee off and returned to the coffee maker to pour another. "Consider it a public service."

Wilson plated the food, threw a couple of pieces of toast on each and brought them to the table. Before sitting down he went to the fridge, grabbed jam and ketchup, setting them down in front of House, who moved his newspaper over just enough for everything to fit. They ate in silence for a while. As usual House wolfed down his food quickly and then stole a piece of bacon from his lover's plate when Wilson wasn't looking.

"You didn't receive any calls from the hospital overnight so your patient must be still stable," the oncologist commented.

"Either that or she's dead, and my team is too afraid to call me to tell me that they screwed up," House agreed, looking up from his paper. He looked at the younger man's face and saw the slight drawing of his thick eyebrows together which indicated a frustrated Wilson. House closed the newspaper and put it away. "She's responding to treatment but I have a feeling that's not going to last for long. It could prove to be at least a little interesting. I hope." He gave his partner a serious look. "While I'm gone I want you to take it easy. Don't be an idiot and try to do too much today."

"This idiot is going to catch up on my reading," Wilson assured him, smirking. "You try not to cross Cuddy today. She was a bear again yesterday when she came to visit me. I don't know what's up with her lately. Every morning lately she's cranky. Maybe Rachel's not sleeping well and keeping her up."

"Or she's sexually frustrated," House offered with a smirk.

"She's got Lucas," Wilson argued only to get a look from the older man.

"Exactly," was the diagnostician's come-back only to earn a chuckle from the other man. He rose to his feet and gathered the dishes in one hand, his cane in the other. He took them to the sink without being asked and scraped them into the garberator, then sticking them into the dishwasher. He made quick work of washing the frying pan and utensils used before putting them and any remaining food away into the fridge. He grabbed a cloth and wiped the counter, then turned to return to the table to wipe it. He saw Wilson's mouth agape again. He frowned and wiped the table and then returned the cloth.

"Are you feeling okay, Greg?" the younger man asked him, and House swore it was a sincere question which only made him more annoyed.

"I do know how to use a sink and cloth," the diagnostician snarked. "I just don't like to." He left the kitchen and headed to the bathroom where he showered and got ready to go to work. Lately he'd been making a concerted effort to arrive at work on time, if not a little early. He wasn't certain why. Perhaps it was Wilson rubbing off on him, perhaps it was his small effort to prove himself again to Cuddy, his team and himself. When he was still on the Vicodin and drinking heavily he was often too hungover in the morning to even try getting out of bed before eight-thirty or nine in the morning. Sometimes he'd dodge the morning altogether, especially if he didn't have an active case to work on. That was pre-Recovery, pre-trying to turn his life around, little by little. It was a small thing compared to all the other issues he had to deal with eventually, but as Dr. Nolan, his therapist encouraged him on a regular basis, it was a start.

Once he was showered, combed, trimmed and dressed he gathered his cell phone and pager and was ready to leave. Wilson had been bugging him lately about how it was taking him longer and longer in the morning to get ready, to which the diagnostician had pointed out that at least he didn't blow-dry his hair like a girl. His lover, so used to the taunt already had simply smiled smugly and wagged his head at him. Wilson was already seated in the living room, on his new sofa, with a medical journal in his hand as House went to grab his jacket, helmet and backpack.

"Don't try to do the laundry today," House told the younger man. "I'll do it when I get home. If you feel you have to go for a walk, take the elevator, not the stairs."

"Yes, Dear," Wilson retorted sarcastically but there was a small smile on his lips. "Don't drive like a maniac, hit an icy patch and kill yourself."

"Nag," House said.

"Mother hen," the oncologist replied, his eyes already on a page in the journal.

House smirked and left the loft.

***

His patient crashed around ten that morning. He and his team did everything they could but in the end they lost her. After she was dead her husband came forward and admitted that he had left out of the medical information he had given them that she had had in her family a history of heart problems. House's anger had surfaced and he found himself tearing into the man, calling him every synonym for idiot in the thesaurus and throwing in a few foreign words for effect before a quick look from Thirteen, one that said 'that's enough now shut your pie-hole!', jolted him out of his rant. He stormed out of the ICU unit without an apology and headed directly to his office where he grabbed his IPod off of his desk, sat down in his lounger, closed his eyes and tried to soothe himself.

It was a goddamned waste! That woman should not have died! If he had known about the heart condition he never would have come up with the diagnosis he had and have given her the treatment that led directly to her death. He was sick and tired of patients and their loved ones lying to his team and him, either directly or by omission! He didn't give a damn how or why a person was sick—he wasn't their judge! He needed every scrap of honest, useful information about a patient if he was to diagnose and cure her. Unnecessary death infuriated—and sickened—him. Most people saw the fury because that's what he was comfortable allowing people to see—few ever saw the grief underneath, but it was there.

After about ten minutes had passed by, he was startled by a tapping on his shoulder. He grudgingly opened his eyes only to look up at Lisa Cuddy standing over him. He checked his watch, wondering what had taken her so long. He took a couple of deep breaths before pausing his IPod and removing the ear buds.

"If you're going to fire me do it quickly—you just interrupted Led Zeppelin," he told her sardonically. He really didn't feel like sparring with her just then.

Cuddy shook her head; she appeared surprisingly calm as she moved to the sofa against the wall and sat down. House frowned at her reaction, sitting up straighter and appraising her with his brilliant blue eyes. She looked tired, deflated, like she'd had a very long day and had gone home to find that someone had burgled it. In the past, whenever she had that look, the diagnostician knew that she needed to talk; the problem was he really didn't feel like talking with her or anyone else, for that matter.

"Thirteen and Chase told me what happened," the Dean of Medicine explained. "While I don't approve of you screaming at patient's families, I can understand it. You've been surprisingly controlled lately so I'm letting this go. I smoothed things over with Mr. Leeds."

"I don't give a damn what he thinks, Cuddy," House told her angrily but keeping the volume down. "His wife was unable to tell us anything about prior medical conditions from the start. She had no choice but to trust her husband to tell us about them and for some damned reason he didn't! She died as a result…and he's offended that I yelled at him? He's lucky that's all I did!"

"I know," Cuddy agreed with a weak smile. She rose to her feet, "Well I just stopped by to tell you that I'm not going to fire you."

"That's not all you came to do," the diagnostician told her, shaking his head. She was being decent to him, the least he could do was listen to her. "Sit down and tell me what's wrong."

"Am I that obvious?"

"Yup," he told her straight-faced, "but only to those who know you well enough. What's wrong?"

The Dean of Medicine sat down with a sigh and was quiet for a minute or two as she gathered her thoughts. House waited patiently because he knew if she was taking this long to come out with it, it had to be something big. Despite their differences and everything that had happened over the past year he still cared about her, he just didn't believe in broadcasting the fact.

"I'm pregnant," she announced, looking less than elated. House was stunned for a moment before a genuine smile crossed his mouth. After trying so hard to get pregnant and failing then getting pregnant and miscarrying and ending up adopting Rachel here she was, finally carrying her own child. He was genuinely happy for her, but he couldn't help but notice that he was the only one smiling.

"Congratulations, Cuddy!" he told her quietly. "Lucas must be thrilled."

She shrugged. "He doesn't know."

House's smile faded and his eyebrows arched. "Ah. So…why not? You know he likes kids…he's good with Rachel."

Sighing heavily she sat back in the sofa resting her head against the back. "It's not that. He loves kids and he would be thrilled."

"So why aren't you?" the diagnostician asked, without any sarcasm or bitterness. "This is what you've wanted for a long time, isn't it--a stable, committed relationship with a man who loves you, a child and another on the way, all with a successful career?"

She frowned, shrugging; her blue-grey eyes looked sad. House didn't like seeing her this way; she appeared disappointed, almost defeated. This was not the Lisa Cuddy he knew and loved…yes, loved. He was no longer _in_ love with her but they had known each other for too long and had been through too much together for him not to care for her. Part of that affection came out as banter.

"I lied to you the other day," Cuddy admitted, thin-lipped, struggling, it appeared, to remain impassive. "Things aren't so great between Lucas and I. He's rarely around anymore. He's always got some case he's working on, some out of town job, a late-night surveillance to do. When he is home all he wants to do is have sex and interrogate me about my actions when he's not around and my feelings for…you. I keep telling him that you will always be important to me…we're friends, but that's it. I'm sorry if I wasn't supposed to, but I even told him that you and Wilson were a couple, hoping that it would be enough to convince him, but he didn't buy it. He's becoming very suspicious and controlling. Sometimes…." She allowed her voice to trail off, having more to say but reluctant to say it.

As she was telling him this House found himself becoming more and more concerned and angry. How dare that jerk treat her that way—he was damned lucky to have the love of a woman like Lisa! He didn't deserve her! Now the diagnostician understood why she was less than thrilled to be pregnant with the rat's kid! He bit his tongue; ranting about Lucas would only make things worse for her.

"Controlling how?" he demanded. "What is he doing?"

The Dean of Medicine shifted uncomfortably in her seat, frowning worriedly. She was having more difficulty than ever opening up, but House had no intention of letting the subject drop. He felt a knot of tension form in his stomach and had to consciously force himself to keep his hands from clenching.

"Lisa," he repeated deeply, his voice almost as soft as a whisper, "_how_?"

She began to wring her hands. "He's been following me, taking pictures, hacking into my computer to check my schedule. I know because I found a photograph in his underwear drawer when I was putting laundry away. It was a picture taken of me about three weeks ago having lunch with you and Wilson in the hospital cafeteria. I found a fragment of a print-off of my daily schedule floating in the toilet after he had left on one of his surveillance jobs. Also, he's been insisting that every time I fill my car with gas that I write down the odometer reading on the receipt so he can figure out my gas mileage for me—except that I couldn't care less."

"Are you doing it?" House asked, finding it hard not to start cursing. He gripped the arms of his lounger tightly. "Tell me you're not doing it!"

Cuddy avoided his gaze and gave him a tiny shrug which told him that she was.

House sighed in exasperation, "Damnit! Stop doing that! He's tracking your movements to see if what you tell him you're doing matches with how far you've driven."

Nodding almost sheepishly she added in a small voice, "I caught him yesterday copying out the transactions I've entered into my checkbook and looking through my wallet."

"And what did he say when you confronted him about it?"

Again Cuddy failed to answer his question, looking frightened. It was more than House could tolerate. He rose from his chair and marched over to his desk; pulling out a Rolodex of business cards from a drawer and began to rifle through them—just because he had put them into the contraption didn't mean that he had done so in any kind of organized way.

Cuddy rose and followed him to the desk. "What are you doing, House?" she asked a little nervously.

Finding what he wanted, the diagnostician pulled out a card and held it out to her. Cuddy took it and looked at it curiously as House dropped the Rolodex unceremoniously back into the drawer and slammed it shut with the force of his anger. She jumped at the sound.

"This is a card for an abuse counselor," the Dean of Medicine said, looking confusedly at him. "What do you want me to do with this?"

House took a deep breath. "I know you won't believe me if I tell you that Lucas has been psychologically abusing you so you can call that number and ask an expert directly. Cuddy, what he's doing is not only an invasion of your privacy, it's abusive. Controlling your actions, your movements, spying on the money you spend and the people you associate with, accusing you of doing things you aren't and then calling you a liar by not believing you when you do tell him, neglecting you and then making you feel like little more than a sex object…it's classic emotional and psychological abuse—but don't take my word for it! Call that number and find out for yourself--then kick him to the curb before he becomes physically dangerous, too!"

House watched her reaction to what he was saying as he was saying it. At first she looked indignant, then doubtful followed by shocked and finally she looked like she had an epiphany. She turned away from the diagnostician and he noticed that her body began to tremble slightly and then increase in intensity. She wasn't crying…she was….

House gently took her arm and turned her around to face him, frowning. The look on her face told him everything.

"He _has_ physically hurt you!" he concluded with certainty. His eyes began to scan her body, that which wasn't covered, for evidence of bruising or abrasions. There were none visible. "How, Lisa? Where?" When she wouldn't meet his gaze or answer he repeated more emphatically, "_How_?"

Cuddy finally looked at him and stammered, "H-he twisted my arm, hurt my shoulder a little. It's no big deal—we were struggling over my Blackberry—it was an accident—."

"Like hell it was!" House yelled, his eyes blazing. "Which arm?"

"House," she began to protest but the diagnostician wasn't listening.

"_Which arm_?"

"My right," Cuddy finally answered her voice no more than a whisper.

"Take your blouse off," the diagnostician told her curtly, "and don't argue! I know you have a camisole on underneath." He waited impatiently as she submitted to his demand, unbuttoning her top and then slipping her right arm out of the sleeve gingerly. House didn't miss the flinch she made as she did it and once her upper arm and shoulder were exposed he could see why. Her shoulder joint was quite swollen and bruised. It hadn't been dislocated, however. On her upper arm where her sleeve had been covering were two large purple contusions. "I thought you said he just twisted your arm?" he asked her harshly; he wasn't intending on sounding cruel, he was just very upset and angry. "That looks like you've been punched a couple of times. If I were to give you a full examination, would I find other injuries?"

"It's just my arm," she told him, her eyes meeting his now. He could tell that she was telling him the truth.

House very gently began to palpate around her shoulder joint, feeling for any indication of tears in the muscles, tendons and ligaments. She winced twice and each time the diagnostician pulled his hand back and murmured a simple 'sorry'.

"You can put your blouse back on," he told the Dean of Medicine, quietly. "I'm not convinced there isn't muscle damage. We need to get your shoulder X-Rayed to be sure."

Cuddy shook her head as she did up the last two buttons. "Impossible," she told him. "I don't have time. I have a conference call in…." She checked her watch. "In five minutes! Damn! I have to go!"

House grabbed her uninjured arm and gently stopped her. "Cancel it or postpone it. I don't like that swelling. You need to have it taken care of now. When did it happen? Last night?"

"No, this morning before I left for work," she told him, rubbing it much the same way he often rubbed his thigh.

For the amount of swelling and bruising she was exhibiting he was more determined than ever for her to get her arm examined properly and treated. After that was done House intended on following her home and waiting for the louse to show up so he could pummel his fat head in with his cane. In a twisted way he was actually glad Lucas had screwed up and showed his true colors by harming her—now she would see firsthand what he was capable of and dump the loser.

After refusing to accept any of her objections Cuddy tried to pull the 'I'm your boss' card on House, to which he said that when it came to actual medicine he was a superior doctor to her and that overruled her. He also said that he would pick her up kicking and screaming and take her to the ER if she didn't go willingly. The diagnostician wasn't certain whether or not he was actually capable of doing that with his bum leg but he was certainly willing to try. After that, the Dean of Medicine finally gave in. She made two calls from House's phone to reschedule the Conference call and then walked with him down to the ER to be officially admitted for treatment before going to Radiology for the X-Ray. When Cuddy wasn't aware of it House told the attending ER physician that her injuries were from domestic abuse and to keep it quiet. The ER doctor agreed and then made a private phone call to the police.

***

It was around eight before Gregory House arrived back at the loft. Wilson was in the kitchen and heard him come in. He went to greet him.

"What happened to you?" the oncologist asked him after one look at him. "Let me guess—you did something to piss Cuddy off and she towed your ass into the Clinic to begin to work off the extra hours she gave you as punishment."

House looked at his lover, glad to see him after the day he'd had. He tiredly set down his helmet and backpack, leaned his cane against the wall and removed his jacket. He hung it up with a small groan and then took his cane and headed directly for the bedroom. When he got there the diagnostician climbed onto the bed and laid there flat on his back, the very image of exhaustion. Wilson followed him in there and sat on the edge looking at him.

"What happened?" the oncologist asked, frowning now.

House sighed and only his eyes moved to look at him. "My patient croaked. Her damned idiot husband failed to tell me about her chronic heart condition until after the treatment I prescribed killed her."

Wilson cursed under his breath and then crawled onto the bed. He lay on his side, supported by his elbow, facing the diagnostician. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said simply. There wasn't much one could say in that situation. Patients died and as a doctor you learned to accept that and move on, but when a patient died because of something unnecessary like the woman House had been treating, there were no words in the English language to describe the sick sense of waste and disgust one felt.

"You could only work with the information you were given, though," the oncologist added. "It's not your fault, if that helps at all."

"It doesn't," House told him as he rubbed his eyes tiredly. "But that's not all."

"There's more?"

The older man nodded, opening his eyes again. They were tired and slightly bloodshot. He felt almost too tired to talk but Wilson deserved to know both as his confidant and as Cuddy's good friend. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, allowing the oxygen he took in to reenergize him a little.

"I end up blowing up at the moron and then stormed to my office to cool down. That's when Cuddy showed up, but she didn't read me the riot act like I thought she was going to. She came to unload, and I have her permission tell you about it."

Wilson frowned with concern. "Is it serious? Is she okay?"

"Yes and no," House told him. "First of all, she told me that she's pregnant."

A low whistle escaped the younger man's mouth and a smile emerged. "Good for her! She must be so excited!"

"Not as much as you would expect," the diagnostician told him and then proceeded to tell his lover about her confession of what Lucas was doing and her fears, the injury she received (which turned out to be a small tear in her deltoid muscle which didn't require surgery to repair but would heal as a small amount of scar tissue) the report to the police, and the two hours of questioning by the police before she could go home. "She was afraid to go home alone in case Lucas was there before the police arrived," House told his partner. "So I followed her home on my bike and sat with her and Rachel until Lucas arrived home. You can imagine how thrilled he was to see me there."

"About as thrilled as you were to see him," Wilson said with a wry smirk. "Did you hit him?"

House squinted suspiciously. "No."

"Damnit!" Wilson replied, shaking his head. "_I_ would have!"

House had no doubt of that; Wilson wasn't a fighter, but when he was pushed too far, when someone he cared about was treated badly or hurt he had quite the combustible temper.

"However," the diagnostician added, with a hint of a sly smile on his lips and in his eyes, "When he tried to take a swing at me I speared him with my cane and when he was rolling on the floor I accidentally tripped and kicked him in the nuts. You know how clumsy we cripples are."

The oncologist was laughing now. "Yes, you have a terrible time with your feet and that cane with obstacles on the floor!"

House was grinning now, but it soon faded as he continued the story. "The police finally arrived and carried his sorry carcass to jail before I could trip again. Once he was gone, Cuddy finally fell apart." The older man stopped talking and closed his eyes. The details no one needed to know. He had been afraid to leave her alone but knew he couldn't stay there with her all night. So he'd called her sister and waited with the Dean of Medicine until she arrived to be there with her. He'd left his number with the sister with instructions to call should they need anything before heading home. He was very worried about Cuddy; she was taking it harder than he ever would have expected, which only made him more eager to murder the weasel Lucas Douglas—but of course, that wasn't going to happen.

He felt his lover snuggled up close to him and put a comforting arm around him, gently stroking his hair; the diagnostician loved to have his hair stroked. It felt so good to come home and know that there was someone there who loved him and would comfort him this way; he had gone most of his life without that calming assurance, that simple affection. He smiled.

"Well I am going to warm you up something to eat," Wilson told him after a little while, drawing away and rising from the bed.

"No," House told him. "I can do that. You go--."

"Don't say it!" the oncologist warned him, cutting him off. "I've been on my ass or sleeping most of the day and I need to walk around and do something. Have a shower or a bath, relax a while and I'll go get you some food when you're done."

House knew that he should argue but was too tired. He smiled gratefully and nodded. Wilson left the bedroom and the diagnostician dragged himself out of bed, limping to the bathroom. His leg hurt and a bath was tempting but he was hungry too. A shower was quicker—he could take a bath later and convince Wilson to join him. After his shower he threw on a comfortable pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt and then headed for the kitchen. Along the way he noticed that the door to the extra bedroom was open and the light was on. It was extremely unusual for Wilson to leave it that way. He went to turn the light off and stopped in the doorway, staring with astonishment into the room.

The bed had been made up with a brand new comforter set which was sports themed, the pattern being various different kinds of equipment from different types of sports. A rugged-looking Teddy bear wearing a baseball hat and jersey with a bat in its hand rested against the pillows. On the walls were posters of sports giants, banners of various kinds. The curtains had been changed and matched the bedding. In the corner was a large red tub with various kinds of toys that a young boy would love. A lamp the shape of a football adorned the night table next to the bed and a photo-sensitive nightlight with a cover that looked like an old-style collector baseball card was plugged into the wall with the other electrical outlets covered with plastic safety plugs. A shorter bookcase stood against one of the walls filled with age-appropriate books.

House limped inside, turning a circle and looking around. A smile was tugging on his mouth. He hadn't talked with Wilson about Kenny after seeing Cuddy the day before yesterday—the oncologist had been asleep—and it had slipped his mind since…. The diagnostician sat on the end of the bed and shook his head. The smile had completely emerged now. Suddenly his day didn't seem so rotten.

"Your food's ready," Wilson said from where he leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed in front of his chest and a crooked smile on his face. He looked knowingly at his lover. "Come eat before it cools off again."

Before the older man could say anything, the younger one was gone. As he stood up with his cane and was about to head for the kitchen he saw a slip of paper lying on top of the chest of drawers. There was writing on it. He picked it up and read it.

G,

Called a Mrs. Talbot at CPS this morning. She's coming by tomorrow morning around nine. Hope you like the room…Thirteen helped me pick it out and decorate it when she was supposed to be in the lab…oops! My bad!

XOXO,

J.

House grinned; he folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket, and left the room, turning off the light and shutting the door behind him.


	8. Chapter 8 Probable Cause

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: I'm expecting to write a total of ten chapters unless after chapter ten I get a strong response requesting that I continue further. I hope that you are continuing to enjoy this.

Please comment—it makes me very happy!!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated: M** for language, violence and descriptive sexuality. Discretion advised.

* * *

**Chapter Eight—Probable Cause**

Trying its hardest the sun simply couldn't break through the cloud cover, leaving the mid-morning temperatures in Princeton, New Jersey cold; add to it the humidity in the region and it was possible that rain mixed with snow could soon be falling from the sky. Add to that a wind gusting to thirty miles an hour and you had a miserable day outside. That didn't deter him, however. It was better to be in the rotten elements than sitting behind his desk waiting to be pestered by one of his Fellows when all he wanted was to be left alone.

For that reason Dr. Gregory House, Chief of Diagnostic Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, hauled his ass up flights of stairs with his ruined, aching thigh to the hospital roof. It was one of a handful of haunts he had to flee to when the situation at hand was more unpleasant or emotionally trying than he could tolerate and still be around other people. Almost nobody other than him came up there to think which made it a perfect location to flee to—and he definitely needed to.

He pushed open the door and stepped out into the open air. He remembered to bring his jacket with him and had grabbed a hospital blanket from a storage room before ascending. With his STEP click-step rhythm he headed to a section of the roof where a low box-shaped rising existed which was likely an air-conditioning unit exhaust platform. Setting the blanket down on the elevated portion of the roof he used his upper body strength and foot hold along the wall for his left foot and hoisted himself up onto it and sat down. Taking the blanket he wrapped it around the damaged thigh of his right leg to protect it a little more from the cold, hoping that it would prevent painful cramping from the temperature outside. From where he sat he could see across a large portion of Princeton high above the noise of traffic and urban life in general down below. He could see the running park not too far from the hospital grounds and the picnic table he often sat at or laid on, depending on the weather and his mood. Turning his head one way he could see Plainsboro Pond and the other way the James Forrestal Campus in the distance.

House was used to disappointments; his life had been filled with them. Hell, his life had been founded on them. There was the disappointment of growing up a Marine brat and having to move with his father from one base to another, domestically and internationally, never being able to plant roots in one place long enough to make lasting friendships before being dragged halfway around the world again. There was the disappointment of knowing that the man he had been raised to believe was his father didn't approve of him and was often heard to say was disappointed in him. Also was the disappointment of having said father abuse him rather than love and nurture him and a mother who was too intimidated and dependent upon her husband to stand up for and protect her son. Disappointment mixed with betrayal came in the form of discovering as an adolescent that the man he called Dad was not really his biological father and that he had been lied to. Then there was the disappointment of rejection from different schools and expulsions from medical colleges before finally finding one that would actually keep him long enough to graduate. Likewise was the disappointment of working hard to become the best he could be in his chosen field only to be denied gainful employment in that field because he was considered a maverick and liability rather than a free-thinking innovationist and asset. There was also the disappointment of knowing that the job he did manage to get where he could have his own department and use his unique skills and genius he received more due to the sympathy of a past friend than because of professional acknowledgement of his expertise by his 'peers'.

There were also the more personal disappointments, like the infarction that took most of his thigh muscle and tissue leaving him crippled and in chronic pain which in turn led to the disappointment of being abandoned by the woman he loved and becoming dependent upon strong narcotics for pain relief; becoming addicted to those, he used them to ease the pain in his heart as well as his leg. The disappointment of having his team of Fellows abandon him, forcing him to find a new team that he never quite clicked with in the same way was a strong one, as was the death of his best friend's lover and being abandoned by said friend who couldn't look at him without anger and grief; once that said friend returned and forgave him was the disappointment of the loss of the trust and intimacy they had shared _Before_. Bitter was the disappointment of having one of his new ducklings, perhaps the one he liked the most, commit suicide and feeling the guilt of not having seen the signs of his depression before it was too late. He also thought of the disappointment of losing face and sanity in front of his friends, colleagues, Fellows and total strangers alike. Upon returning from rehab there was the disappointment of having friends doubt his sincerity and growth at first, the disappointment of having a dear friend lie to him and break his heart and then act as if they had never really been friends at all.

Now, there was this most recent disappointment House faced and while he knew that he no longer had to face it alone like he had with most of the others he found it hard to lean on the support he did have because he wasn't used to having someone there.

The application House and his life-partner Dr. James Wilson had placed with CPS to become the sponsor parents of Kenny Baker, the abused five-year-old boy that House had treated and had become fond of, had been denied. Out of nowhere, it seemed, appeared the biological father of the boy--who had abandoned Kenny and his mother just after the child was born—demanding custody of his son. Kenny was given over to the man and after that House no longer knew what had happened to him and probably would never find out.

House was surprised at just how disappointed he was over it. He had never even considered the possibility of having or raising children of his own, even if he had gotten married. Having had a lousy example of fatherhood growing up he had always been afraid that he would end up being the kind of father his own had been. It hadn't been until Cuddy had taken in Rachel that he had even considered the idea of being a parent, and then only in passing. Kenny had been the trigger to his serious consideration of parenthood. The blond little boy with big green eyes and a penchant for Dr. Seuss had worked his way past his crusty exterior to the soft place beneath, a place few people ever reached.

The diagnostician smiled fondly when he thought about the enthusiasm he would see cross the boy's face when the doctor would enter his hospital room after visiting hours with a Dr. Seuss book under his arm. House would sit down on a chair next to the bed and Kenny would carefully climb onto House's left knee so as not to 'bang and hurt Dr. H's hurt leg'. With an animation and expressiveness those familiar with the doctor would have been incredulous to see, he would not just _read_ 'The Cat in the Hat' or 'Horton Hears a Who', he would bring the story to _life_ with voice changes and sound effects and funny faces alike. On a couple of occasions the nursing staff from the unit would assemble outside the glass walls of the room to watch the normally miserable misanthropic man completely transform into a storyteller extraordinaire (Later he would threaten them all with a slow and painful death if they ever told anyone so much as a breath of what they had seen). Once the story was done, House would give the little boy a hug and then tuck him in before saying good night and leaving.

Once, when House had been unaware, Thirteen had recorded a video of his performance and later brought it to Wilson to view. That had been a hellish weekend for House who had been constantly teased by his lover about it. The diagnostician was still plotting his revenge on his employee for that betrayal.

It was almost painful to think about that now. He had been really looking forward to continuing that bedtime routine with Kenny at home. The diagnostician rubbed his thigh absently. It had been hurting more since they had received the word.

He heard the door to the roof open and close. There were only two people House knew that would come up to the roof in the middle of the work day. Since there was no familiar tell-tale click-click footfall sound he was able to eliminate one one of them.

"Hi," Wilson said, looking up at him, a cup of coffee in each hand.

House didn't look at him and didn't say anything. He didn't trust himself to.

His lover approached him and set the coffees down on the platform and then lifted himself up to sit next to the older man; he offered over one of the cups. The diagnostician accepted it with an appreciative nod. They sat together in silence for a couple of minutes. House knew that his best friend and partner was just itching to talk but was holding back. Deciding to be merciful, House spoke first.

"No use talking about it."

"Except that it might help you feel better," Wilson told him, looking at him with chocolate brown eyes.

"I'm fine," House lied, still not meeting the other's gaze. "The kid gets to know his father. It's good."

Wilson nodded dubiously, looking out towards the horizon. "And if you believe your own bullshit I have some prime real estate along the San Andreas Fault to sell you. Didn't you notice the tracks on that guy's neck? He tried to hide them with that turtleneck but you'd have to be blind to miss them."

House had seen them. The father, who was barely an adult, had also been high at that meeting; his pin-point pupils had been dead giveaways. House also knew that it was less than a year ago that he himself had been high. It was hard for him to judge another opiate abuser, even though he _really_ wanted to.

"In case you've forgotten, I'm an addict too," the diagnostician reminded him, looking at the younger man with crystalline blue eyes.

"In case _you've_ forgotten," the oncologist responded, "you're a Recovering addict whose therapist was more than happy to provide a positive reference to CPS for. It's not the same thing, Greg. You know that."

The problem was, House wasn't certain that he did. Sure, he was doing well now, but there was no saying what the future held. What if they had been rewarded Kenny only to have something occur that the diagnostician couldn't handle and he started using again? How would the little boy be any further ahead?

"James, stop," House said softly, shaking his head.

"Stop what?"

"Stop trying to make me feel better," the older man answered. "It's not working." He paused and then added, "What's done is done. Going over it all again is pointless."

Wilson nodded slowly; they drank their coffees in silence.

"You know," the younger man said softly, "you weren't the only one looking forward to having Kenny come live with us." He sighed. "It would have been nice to have a son. I'd accepted the fact that I probably never would, but still…." His voice trailed off.

House nodded and a pang of guilt bothered him. It wasn't that he felt guilty that being Wilson's same-sex partner made it a little difficult for the younger man to have children of his own. It was just that….

"If things had worked out differently," the diagnostician asked cautiously, "and Amber had survived…do you think you and she would have eventually had a family?"

Wilson shrugged, appearing to be a little uncomfortable with the question and reluctant to reply. House hadn't intended on guilting or offending him; he had simply been curious. Now he regretted asking.

"Forget it," he mumbled to the younger man but Wilson shook his head, facing him.

"No, it's alright," he told the diagnostician quietly, "I just didn't want to say anything that might hurt you." He sighed. "Amber and I never really talked about it. We hadn't even talked about marriage. Things were going fine and I don't think either one of us wanted to jinx it by making any major plans or decisions for the future. I've always thought that someday I'd like to, but it was not like we were planning anything. Maybe…maybe we never talked about it because…because we weren't all that positive that we would last that long."

Now House was intrigued. He had never heard Wilson mention any doubts about his relationship with Amber back at the time or since. Not that the two of them discussed her all that much with each other. In spite of their reconciliation following her death and now their romantic relationship it was a topic with a lot of hurt and guilt enmeshed in it for the both of them and they tended to avoid discussing the woman altogether.

Frowning, the older man asked, "Why not? You never mentioned that before."

Wilson shrugged and gave his lover a half-smile. "I guess that I knew back then that she wasn't my Soulmate, that only you held that place for me. I wasn't consciously aware of it, but I guess subconsciously I've always known that I was in love with you, but I never allowed myself to believe that you would ever feel the same way about me. When she died it was such a shock that I wasn't thinking straight. I knew deep down that her death wasn't your fault, Greg. I also felt so incredibly guilty for asking you to risk dying to save her, as if her life was more valuable than yours. I think that was the main reason for me running away after she died. Every time I looked at you I not only remembered that she was gone, I was reminded of the callous, selfish way I treated you. I couldn't stay away, though. Missing you hurt more than the guilt I felt. I'm sorry."

House was quiet for a few moments, contemplating what the younger man had said. This was really the first time they had spent more than just a few seconds discussing what had happened over a year and a half ago. Realizing that they both had struggled with guilt over that tragic situation it became clearer why what had happened in the aftermath had happened at all. Reaching over to Wilson, House wrapped an arm around the other's waist and pulled him closer. The oncologist more than readily helped in the process, cuddling up to the older man and resting his head on House's shoulder. It felt so good to have that contact, that simple, loving touch. House had gone so long without it; he never wanted to go without it again.

"I love you, James," he said almost shyly, in a whisper and watched as a smile emerged on his lover's face. "You don't have to be sorry. I'd do whatever it takes to make you happy."

"I love you, too," Wilson told him. "I've been thinking. Just because things didn't work out with Kenny doesn't mean that we can't try again with another child who needs two amazing Dads."

House frowned, puzzled. "You mean, you think we should apply to foster another child?"

"Or take it to the next level and adopt," the oncologist said. "Not an infant, of course!"

"Thank God!" House commented dryly. "Otherwise you'd be the one taking maternity leave, not me."

"I think it's called _paternity_ leave in the case of the parent being a man," Wilson said drolly. "There are a lot of kids out there who never get adopted because they're not tiny babies. On older child, say Kenny's age or a little older, would be good for two professionals like us."

The diagnostician thought about it. It wouldn't be Kenny, but it would be a child with crummy luck and a rotten start whose life may end up better than if he or she ended up growing up in some sterile, impersonal orphanage or group home. House smiled ruefully. Three months ago the last thing on his mind was becoming a dad; he didn't like kids, they were loud and needy and whiny and an all-round giant pains in the ass. So what had changed to so dramatically change his thinking? Looking down at Wilson's head resting against him, he knew. He had discovered what it meant to really be loved by someone and wanted to share that gift with someone else. He began to chuckle at how ridiculous it seemed.

"What's so funny?" his lover asked him lifting his head and looking at the older man curiously.

"I'm wondering if I shouldn't see Nolan about having my psych meds adjusted," was the answer. "Misanthropic bastard and self-avowed child-hater Dr. Gregory House adopting a child with his same-sex life-partner, former nurse hunter and world-renowned panty-peeler Dr. James Wilson!"

Both men began to laugh heartily at that. When the laughter had subsided, House became serious again. "So you're not afraid I'm going to completely warp a young mind?"

"No more so than I will," Wilson replied with a crooked smile. "Does that mean you approve of the idea?"

House cocked his head as he fought past his anxiety and nodded slowly. "Sounds like a plan."

"Good," the younger man said with satisfaction. "Now can we get our asses back inside before we freeze them off out here?"

Smirking, House nodded. He had to get back to his office anyway to check on three older, larger kids looking to him for leadership.

* * *

Throwing a blue file onto the middle of the conference table, House went to the white board and uncapped a dry erase marker saying, "Symptoms go!"

His three Fellows opened the file folder; inside were four sets of papers they each took to look through. Dr. Eric Foreman was absent, having called in sick with a nasty case of bronchitis.

Dr. Chris Taub spoke first and as he did House wrote the symptoms down on the board. "Thirty-eight year old male who immigrated to the States from Cypress two years ago, with a history of early onset arthritis and who had an atrial valve replacement eleven months ago presenting with low-grade fever, headache, upper and lower abdominal pain upon palpation, loss of appetite, complaints of stomach pain and indigestion, jaundice and oral and genital ulcerations—ouch!"

The added commentary brought the tug of a smile to the corner of Dr. Robert Chase's mouth before he added, "Says here he's currently on high dose ibuprofen treatment for arthritis in his knees and ankles."

Thirteen shrugged, looking at Chase as she spoke, "The history taken in the ER says he used to play for the Cyprian national football team…they play football in Cypress?"

"Football as in soccer," House informed her, turning briefly from the white board, "not 'Monday Night'. Ideas?"

"Well, the soccer could be an aggravator of the arthritis, which is autoimmune," Thirteen responded, absently poking the palm of her left hand with the end of her pen. "High-dose Ibuprofen treatment could be causing liver damage, ergo the jaundice. If the gallbladder is also affected, it could be the cause of the indigestion."

"Low-grade fever is not associated with arthritis which the file indicates as being a pre-existing condition dating back at least five years," Taub pointed out. "That's more the possibility of infection, inflammation. Infection of the pancreas and-or the liver could explain the indigestion, abdominal pain upon palpitation, jaundice, and fever."

"Yes," Thirteen insisted, "but the arthritis with the atrial valve replacement indicates inflammation from an autoimmune response. If there were multiple organs infected you would expect a higher fever; inflammation can present with low-grade fever in some cases depending upon the individual."

"However," Chase cut in, "Where does the genital ulceration come into all of this?"

"Poor choice in women?" Taub muttered, earning guffaws from the two other men in the room. The only female present shook her head in disdain.

"Yeah, _real _mature," Thirteen sighed. She waited until the last of the sniggers was finished before continuing. "I'm going risk being ridiculed and throw out the suggestion of Lupus."

House cast her a scowl despite the fact that a lot of the symptoms did fit and the symptomology of Systemic Lupus Erythematosis was diverse and affected several organ systems. The younger doctor caught his look.

"The symptoms fit," she defended and began counting them off on her fingers. "It explains the low-grade fever, loss of appetite, stomach pain and indigestion, jaundice if his liver is affected, arthritis and perhaps even the damage done to his atrial valve that required it to be replaced. Even the ulcerations can be explained."

Cocking his eyebrow at her, the diagnostician turned back to the white board and wrote down the profane word 'Lupus' before turning around and looking at Taub and Chase.

"Any better suggestions…_please_?" he asked, whining with the last word.

"I stick by generalized systemic infection," Taub answered, unmoved from his original diagnosis. "He's presenting in only three of the eleven standard criteria for Lupus."

The Australian member of the team glanced between Thirteen and Taub.

"I'm leaning towards Thirteen's theory," he said, giving Taub a shrug and then looking at his boss, "although the lack of the presence of a malar butterfly rash makes me hesitate."

House gave a melodramatic sigh and then sobered to say, "Fine. We cover all the bases. Taub run a CBC and serology assay, standard urinalysis, test for Anti-DNA , anti-Sm, anticardiolipin and ANA, as well as check his hepatic enzymes. Thirteen, you and Chase run him through the MRI and standard photosensitivity tests and then join Taub in the lab."

As the team left the conference room to complete their assigned tasks House headed next door to his office. Thirteen held back and followed him in there.

"So how are things coming concerning Kenny?" she asked him as the diagnostician took a seat behind his desk.

House looked up grimly and shook his head. "The kid's father has claimed him," he told her stoically.

The younger doctor frowned in disappointment. "I'm sorry," she told him. "I know that you and Wilson were looking forward to having him. When did it happen?"

It wasn't exactly what House wanted to be talking about just then, but at the same time he knew that Thirteen had been behind their bid to foster Kenny from the start so he felt a little obliged to fill her in. "Yesterday, but we found out about the father's claim the two days before."

Nodding Thirteen shrugged and smiled with trepidation. "Well, it's good that Kenny's going to get to know his father. It could turn out being a good thing for him…right?"

"Right," the diagnostician said, trying to sound upbeat, but he really had a sick feeling about the situation. He mustn't have sounded too convincing because the woman's smile disappeared and a bit of a frown returned to her carefully defined brows.

"Well, I'll get back to work, Boss," she said and made her exit. House watched her go in silence. He was glad to have a case to work on to keep his mind off of Kenny and what might possibly happening with him in his new start with his father.

He was reading through the patient file with a fine-toothed comb when his phone rang. Setting the file down he removed his reading glasses from where they had slid to the end of his nose and then answered.

"House, He snapped. "This better be good or I'm hanging up."

"Dr. House?" a female voice said through the receiver, "This is Dr. Terri Lowe from the ER."

House sat higher in his seat. The name and the voice combined to remind him who she was; she was the doctor that had stitched up his chest after he'd been sliced by a bigot doctor in the parking lot of the hospital after the said bigot had found out that Wilson and he were romantically involved. The diagnostician remembered being impressed with her, and impressing House was not easy.

"What can I do for you, Doctor?" he replied, losing the snark from his words.

"We just had a patient arrive in pretty bad shape and he keeps saying your name," she told him.

Frowning, the diagnostician shrugged mentally. "So?"

"So he was brought in unidentified and if you're not too busy I'd appreciate it if you could come down to the ER to help identify him," Lowe answered.

He wasn't thrilled with the idea of running all the way down to the ER (like he could _run_ anywhere) to identify someone who may have been his patient sometime in the past decade he'd been working at PPTH. Chances were he hadn't even met this person before.

"Tell me what he looks like," House insisted, growing irritated. "I _am_ busy."

Lowe sounded about as irritated as he felt when she answered, "Well, Doctor, he Caucasian, blond and stands about three and a half feet tall. I'm guessing he's about five or six years of age but he's only semi-conscious and can't answer my questions."

House's heart stopped and then fell into his stomach. He was frozen, unable to breathe much less speak.

"Dr. House?" the ER doctor said after he hadn't responded to her. "Are you still there?"

"I'll be right down," the diagnostician managed to croak before hanging up. He grabbed his cane and then rose to his feet. He limped quickly out of his office but instead of turning towards the elevators he turned the other way, directly for the Chief of Oncology's office.

House didn't bother knocking, as usual, before trying the door; it was unlocked. He pushed it open and walked in to see Wilson sitting at his desk talking to a twentyish woman. Both the oncologist and his patient looked up at the intrusion. Wilson rolled his eyes when he saw it was House (of course it was House—who else would barge into his office during office hours without knocking?) and glared up angrily, opening his mouth to yell at the older doctor when he saw the expression on the diagnostician's face. Wilson went from anger to worry in a flash.

"Uh, Ms. Porter, I'm sorry for the disruption," he told his patient apologetically. "Would you just excuse me for one moment? I'll only be a minute."

The young woman nodded as the oncologist rose from his desk, headed for the door and pulled House out with him into the corridor, shutting the door behind him.

"Why did you just barge in on me while I'm with a patient?" he asked the older doctor, but instead of angry his voice was soft. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"

House's mouth and throat felt bone dry and he had difficulty transferring his thoughts to his mouth. "It's Kenny!"

"What about him?" Wilson asked, confused.

"He's just been brought in to the ER," the diagnostician told his lover sotto voce. "I'm going down--."

Wilson grabbed his shoulder and forced the older man to look him in the eyes; House's crystalline eyes had darkened to deep bottle blue with worry.

"I'm almost done here," he told him, "After this patient I'm done for the day. I'll meet you down there as soon as I can, okay? Are you going to be alright?"

House nodded once and then turned and limped towards the elevator as fast as his two feet and cane could carry him. Wilson watched him for a moment longer, his chocolate brown eyes filled with concern, and then returned to his office.

* * *

House was met by Lowe the moment he arrived in the ER. He could tell by the gravity in her pretty grey eyes that the situation was not a good one. She led him to the correct treatment bay, explaining to him the boy's injuries as she did.

"An elderly couple out walking their dog heard the squealing of tires and then a cry just around the corner from where they were. Immediately they heard another screech of tires. They hurried to find out what had happened and found the boy lying on the street unconscious. There was no car to be seen but he obviously had been hit by one. They called for an ambulance and stayed with him until the ambulance arrived. The paramedics that brought him in said they were pretty certain that he'd been struck by a car backing up and was driven over by the car which then sped away and he was left for dead. When he arrived here he was unconscious, tachy, BP in the basement. He has rigidity in the left upper quadrant of his abdomen and the ultrasound shows blood in the belly. We've managed to stabilize him and we're ready to ship him to surgery."

She pulled back the curtain surrounding the bay where two ER staffers were prepping to move him to the Trauma OR. House approached the stretcher and looked down at the familiar pale face.

"His name is Kenneth Baker," House told her quickly, keeping his voice even. "Five years old. He was recently brought to me with a small splenic rupture and _C. perfingens_ poisoning. He's a victim of parental abuse from his mother and was a ward of the state up until yesterday when he was placed in the care of his father. His spleen has probably been reinjured."

One of the staffers had grabbed the boy's chart and was writing down the information the diagnostician was telling them. The more House spoke the angrier he became and the sharper his tone.

"Contact CPS," House told Lowe, looking at her with an intensity that almost made her wince. "Have them find the father. It wouldn't surprise me if he wasn't the asshole who did this." The diagnostician quit speaking, his voice breaking. He swallowed hard and blinked back the moisture in his eyes, fighting to hide the fear and dismay he felt.

The diagnostician placed the palm of his hand against Kenny's face, cupping his cheek. Two green eyes flickered open momentarily. He had been intubated and couldn't speak but for a brief moment there was a flash of recognition in the child's eyes when he looked up at the doctor.

"It's going to be alright, Kenny," House murmured gently, forcing himself to put on a brave face for the little boy. Inside the diagnostician's emotions were churning in pace with his stomach. All he wanted to do was find the father and beat the shit out of him; whether or not he was directly responsible for Kenny's injuries or if he had simply been negligent in keeping a protective eye over the boy House didn't care. There was only so much a body could take before it stopped fighting back, especially a body as small and weakened as Kenny's.

House felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see that it was Lowe's. She looked concerned.

"Are you alright, Doc?" the ER doctor asked him gently. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

House shook his head, not trusting his voice. His eyes were drawn to movement behind Lowe and he saw Wilson jogging in their direction. He ran up to House, panting a little.

"How is he?"

"They're about to take him to surgery--internal bleeding," the diagnostician told him and then nodded at the ER doctor. "This is Dr. Lowe, Cameron's replacement."

Wilson extended a hand to her, "Dr. James Wilson."

"How do you do, Doctor," she said, shaking his hand with a pleasant smile, looking between him and House and then giving the older man a knowing look. "I'm going to go make that call to CPS," she announced, making her leave of them. House and Wilson turned their attention back to Kenny who looked so small and fragile on the large stretcher.

"God, Greg!" Wilson murmured in horror, "What the hell happened?"

One of the two staffers turned to the doctors and told them, "We're taking him to surgery now."

House and Wilson stepped back out of the way as Kenny was quickly wheeled out of the treatment bay and rushed towards the emergency elevators.

"He was backed over by a car," House told him, finding it increasingly difficult to hide how he felt. "Whoever did it took off before help arrived. He was found by a couple walking their dog."

Wilson looked around him. "Where's his father?" he asked.

"That's a damned good question, isn't it?" the older man growled quietly, clenching the cane in his right hand at tightly as he could. The muscles in his face were tensing as a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil.

The oncologist wrapped his arm around House's shoulder. "It's going to be okay, Greg," he told his lover gently, brown eyes finding blue.

"And if it isn't?" asked the diagnostician in an anger which wasn't meant for the recipient. "Then what?" He pulled away from his best friend and partner and began to limp towards the exit. Wilson exhaled loudly in disgust, not at House but at the situation and then hurried to catch up. He really hoped Kenny pulled through because if he didn't the younger doctor wasn't certain that the older would.


	9. Chapter 9 Reversible Error

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: This is chapter nine of "The Law of House. Sorry for leaving you on a cliffy and making you wait so long, but I've got three fics on the go and I'm trying to be fair to all of them as far as wait time is concerned! Plus, life just doesn't understand that I have writing to do instead of doing trivial things like working ;)

Please comment—it helps me improve my writing! They're like homemade chocolate chip cookies…you're never satisfied with just one!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated T** for language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

* * *

**Chapter Nine—Reversible Error**

Once again he found himself in the Observation Gallery overlooking the emergency surgery of a person he cared a great deal about. The last two times it had been his best friend; now it was a little boy who had worked his way into his crusty heart.

Dr. Gregory House stood in front of the glass, his startling blue eyes gazing down filled with extreme concern. He felt powerless to affect the outcome of the mini-drama taking place below, just as he had the last two times. This time, however, he had his best friend and lover standing there with him as a source of support. He wasn't the kind to hang off of him but just his presence was a steadying force.

"It's coming along fine," Dr. James Wilson told him softly, soothingly. House glanced sideways at him, seeing the worry etched on the oncologist's face. "Dr. Harriman is a very skilled surgeon."

Nodding in acknowledgement, the diagnostician said nothing. He didn't trust himself to be able to speak without betraying the tumultuous emotions he was feeling. Kenneth Baker, the five year old child on the table below, didn't deserve to be undergoing trauma surgery twice in under a month thanks to his own parents. The first time was to repair the damage done to his spleen caused by his mother punching him in the gut as a punishment for eating dirt. This time was due to being backed over by a car which may or may not have been driven by his heroin-addicted father. If his father hadn't been the one behind the wheel he was still responsible for it having happened because he was neglecting his responsibility to keep an eye on his son. House cursed CPS for giving the boy to his father instead of allowing Wilson and him to foster him.

If Kenny managed to survive this time around House would fight tooth and nail to have him placed under the two doctors' care. If CPS wanted to fuck around with his welfare again then House had no problem with absconding with the child in order to keep him safe. Thus far he had failed miserably in his promise to Kenny to protect him from further harm but no more; he would fulfill his promise no matter what it took. He glanced over at Wilson who was unaware of his scrutiny. He hoped he could count on the younger man to back him up on this. He was ninety-nine point nine percent certain he could.

Reaching his hand out towards Wilson he took his lover's hand gently in his. The warmth of the other man's hand was strangely comforting; the reassuring squeeze he received in return was even more so.

Two beepers went off suddenly and both doctors checked their own. It said the same thing for each of them "CPS-C's Office."

"Do you want me to go down while you stay here?" Wilson asked him helpfully. "Or do you want both of us to go down?"

House thought about that for only a moment. He really didn't want to tear himself away from there and the younger doctor was definitely the more diplomatic of the two of them. If he went down there he'd probably say something that would convince CPS he was as big of a danger to Kenny as the boy's parents had proven themselves to be.

"You go," House told him simply. "I'll stay."

Wilson nodded and let go of his partner's hand, heading for the door. He stopped in the threshold and looked back at the older doctor. "Let me know right away if…?"

Nodding at him, the diagnostician then turned back to the window and watched the reflection of the oncologist leaving in the glass. He then returned his focus back down to the proceedings below.

* * *

Wilson knocked on the door of Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Through the glass he could see his boss sitting behind her desk, talking to a woman sitting in one of two chairs facing her. Upon hearing his knock, Cuddy looked up; seeing him she waved him to come in. He did so, approaching the desk, stopping when he was next to the woman seated. He then recognized the woman as being Mrs. Talbot, Kenny Baker's case worker. He hadn't recognized her from behind.

"Mrs. Talbot says that you've already met, Dr. Wilson," Cuddy said formally as Wilson took the vacant chair next to the social worker.

"That's right," Wilson acknowledged, smiling warmly at the woman, extending a hand. "It's nice to see you again."

"Likewise," Talbot told him with a reserved smile, shaking his hand briefly. Wilson couldn't tell if she was being a little offish towards him or if she was simply a shy person. He chose to believe the latter. He almost always tried to give people the benefit of the doubt until he knew them well enough to be able to tell something about them, one way or another.

"Is Dr. House coming?" Cuddy asked, looking at Wilson questioningly. There was an undercurrent of concern in her voice that only Wilson caught.

"He's still observing Kenny's surgery," the oncologist told her. "He asked me to come to speak for the both of us."

Talbot looked interested at that. "How is the surgery going on Kenneth?"

"So far so good," Wilson replied, nodding optimistically. "The spleen was in fact the source of his internal bleeding and they were in the process of removing it when I was paged. The surgeon in charge is one of the best in the state."

A small smile found its way to Cuddy's face. The CPS worker nodded in satisfaction and then set down to business immediately. "I was discussing with Dr. Cuddy the situation we find ourselves in," Talbot informed him. "We've been unable to contact Kenneth's father at any of the numbers he provided us with but we're still trying to locate him, as are the police. The fact that Mr. Baker wasn't in the vicinity of his son when the accident took place is of great concern. It's apparent that due care and attention were not being taken by him concerning his son. Until Mr. Baker is located Kenneth will become a ward of the state. Once we have the opportunity to speak with the father concerning this issue the determination as to the boy's placement will be discussed and the decision whether or not to return the child back into the care of his father will be made."

"Mrs. Talbot," Wilson spoke up, trying to be rational and congenial while at the same time feeling very frustrated with what the woman had just told him, "I don't quite understand what is in question here that a determination as to Kenny's placement depends upon the testimony of the father. The fact is Mr. Baker was not taking care of Kenny. If he had been he would have made certain that Kenny wasn't playing at the end of a driveway like he was. He's displayed gross negligence—I mean, the man wasn't even around when it happened and he still can't be located! If this isn't a clear indication that Kenny is not safe in his father's custody I don't know what does!"

"I understand your concerns, Dr. Wilson," Talbot told him impassively, "but the law is still clear on the fact that Mr. Baker is to be considered innocent until proven guilty."

"Yes," Cuddy interjected, frowning, "but that's in a court of law. The custody and care of a minor is in question here and I don't see how you can withhold action until Mr. Baker is located. The fact remains that Kenny's father is not here! Kenny was left unattended at the age of five and that resulted in him being gravely injured. No matter what excuse the father gives to explain away his absence doesn't change the fact that he was legally responsible to ensure that Kenny was provided with adequate care and attention from a responsible adult and he shirked that responsibility."

_Yes!_ Wilson thought in agreement. _What she said!_

"That's why Kenneth has been made a ward of the state," Mrs. Talbot told the doctors, nodding. "You needn't worry—his well being is my top priority."

Wilson rolled his eyes. His well-being was her top priority? That was a farce! CPS had done nothing but make decisions that were as far away from looking after Kenny's best interest as the East is from the West! The oncologist had to take a deep breath and exhale slowly just to keep his voice on an even keel as he responded to that.

"So, what becomes of Kenny once he is released from hospital if his father is never located or it's determined that he isn't to have custody over him?" he asked her, the muscles in his neck and back tensing. "Is he returned to an institution or is he fostered out? If he's fostered out, will the decision that was made to place him in the care of Dr. House and myself still stand or will we have to reapply?"

Looking perturbed Talbot shook her head in disapproval. "One question at a time, Doctor, please!" she objected. "First of all, Kenneth, if removed from his father's care, will be taken to one of the state care facilities while all applications for fostering are considered. Second, you will have to reapply but I have to warn you: you may not receive approval as easily as you did the first time around."

Looking genuinely perplexed, Wilson asked, "I don't understand…why not?"

Talbot shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Whatever the answer was, Wilson could see that it disturbed or even embarrassed her. This didn't look good. He hoped that whatever it was it was easily remedied; House would not take this well.

"My new superior believes, after consultation with a child psychologist," Talbot answered, avoiding his gaze, "that children in the situation Kenneth is require a more stable fostering environment, two foster parents who are living in a more…traditional way."

Wilson scowled, beginning to understand just what exactly the problem was, and if he was right, it stunk to high heaven. "Define 'traditional' Mrs. Talbot. I'm _really_ interested in what your superior's definition of that word is." His voice was low and barely restrained. He felt himself clenching his fists. Out of the corner of his eye the oncologist could see a frown forming on Cuddy's face and she was giving him a look of caution.

The CPS worker sighed, and Wilson felt a twinge of sympathy for her. She apparently didn't feel comfortable with the position her superior had taken and was being forced to put a positive face on it. Even so, his growing outrage made it difficult to accept that.

"Traditional," she told him and her mouth and throat sounded dry, "in terms of a father and mother role model in the home as opposed to…alternative family dynamics."

"I see." Wilson's eyes narrowed and his jaw set in disgust and anger. Before he could say anything more Cuddy spoke up; the oncologist knew she was trying to defuse the bomb in him that was about to go off.

"Mrs. Talbot, you do realize that's discrimination? CPS has no right to do what you just said!"

Sighing again, Talbot looked at her almost apologetically and shrugged slightly. "I…I know. I want you to know that I strongly disagree with this policy and I have voiced my objections to my superior as well as the assistant director above her. I haven't received a response from either party. My hands are tied at this point in time." She looked to Wilson now. "Dr. Wilson, I will do everything I can to see that your petition is approved but realistically I don't have the kind of authority to overrule a decision made by my superior. My suggestion to you would be to apply again and if you are rejected demand a written explanation from the CPS director's office as to the reasons for your rejection. If this is not helpful I suggest you contact a civil rights lawyer about your legal options. It might also be helpful to contact the state ombudsman as well as the ACLU and any local civil rights groups. You do have rights…you shouldn't be discriminated against because of your sexual preference."

Any anger or resentment Wilson may have felt towards Talbot personally quickly dissipated. He believed that her regret was genuine. He appreciated her suggestions and the fact that she had objected to her superiors on House's and his behalf.

"Thank you, Mrs. Talbot," the oncologist told her with a nod of acknowledgement. "I will be certain to do that. I appreciate your advice; it seems inconceivable to me that in the twenty-first century--." His beeper went off, cutting his words off. He quickly checked it; it was from House.

"Cuddy, can I use your phone?" he asked her urgently. "It's from House."

Her eyes opened wider and she nodded, moving it closer to him. Wilson quickly dialed the internal number for the Observation Theater. It didn't even ring before House picked it up.

"What news?" the oncologist asked anxiously.

"They're finishing up," House answered and there was a hint of encouragement in it that made Wilson sigh silently in relief. "Surgeon gave me a thumb up. He's going to recovery and then ICU. I've been paged by my team so I'll talk to you later. What news with you?"

"I'll tell you about it when we talk," Wilson told him, trying to hide his own disappointment and frustration from his voice.

"Right," House replied evenly and then hung up.

Wilson returned the phone to its cradle and then addressed the two women. "Kenny's surgery is finishing up and he's doing well. He'll be taken to ICU from Recovery."

Mrs. Talbot nodded, allowing herself a small smile. "That's good news. I have to be going…Dr. Wilson, remember what I said."

The oncologist gave her a nod. "Thank you, Mrs. Talbot. I will."

After bidding farewell to Cuddy she left, leaving Wilson and Cuddy alone. The Dean of Medicine rounded her desk to stand next to her Chief of Oncology and placed a comforting hand on his arm; her other arm was slung up close to her body to help stabilize her healing shoulder. "I haven't had a lot of time to talk with you lately. I haven't had lunch yet—have you eaten?"

Wilson thought about that. He was, in fact, hungry. "No, I haven't…but I have rounds…."

"I'm ordering you to push that until later and have lunch with me—my treat. You have to eat or you'll get sick," she told him. "And bring House along. I don't need a pouting diagnostician roaming the hospital corridors!"

This was one of the few overtures of friendship Cuddy had shown him in months, ever since House had returned from Mayfield. He wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that Lucas was no longer in her life. Regardless, he'd missed his friendship with her and in spite of some of the hard feelings that had been engendered he cared about her and wanted that friendship back.

"Alright," Wilson agreed with a smile. "I'll make a couple of calls and meet you in the cafeteria in fifteen?"

"Great!" she agreed warmly. Wilson nodded and left, heading for his office.

* * *

House stood in his office behind his desk, leaning on the flat of his hands on its surface, scowling at his 'ducklings' (so named because they would often follow behind him around the hospital like ducklings behind a duck) as they stood in front of him looking sheepish.

"You lost the patient?" he said incredulously, his azure eyes glaring at them, cold as ice. "How do you lose a man who can barely move from joint pain?" His voice was _loud_. His eyes came to rest on Chase. The good-looking Australian suddenly became the spokesperson for the group.

"Well, see," Chase answered, appearing to choose his words carefully, "Thirteen and I had just finished the MRI and were taking him out of the lab when a fight broke out between two teenagers—we were the closest so we stepped in to break it up--."

"We were only fifteen feet from the wheelchair," Thirteen cut in, her eyes flashing nervously, "and it only lasted two or three minutes before security arrived…we went right back to get him but he was gone."

"Somebody wheeled him away," House concluded, rolling his eyes. The patient wasn't gone—he'd been misplaced. All they had to do was find--.

"The wheelchair was still there where we left it," Chase said, breaking the diagnostician's line of thought. "Mr. Trainor was gone. He just disappeared. Of course we notified security…they're checking the security video logs to see if he left the hospital. They're also searching the hospital but we've pretty much scoured this place looking and we haven't found—"

"You three are idiots!" House yelled, his eyes blazing. He didn't know why he felt as furious as he did over this. Quite frankly he didn't really care where the patient was. If he didn't want to be treated then that was up to him. Unless of course he had developed another symptom that involved his cognitive reasoning processes and was wandering around the city in a hospital gown and robe lost and confused and in danger. If that was the case then he was going to be in deep shit if anything happened to him. Okay, now he knew why he was so angry. "One of two possibilities—one, something went haywire in his brain and he's traipsing around somewhere just asking to be hurt or that fight you broke up was a ruse to distract you long enough for someone to help him make a get away. Either way, my ass is in a sling if you don't find him right now! Because if I get fired…." He allowed his voice to trail off for effect. His meaning wasn't lost on Chase and Thirteen, both of whom looked significantly paler. Taub, however, stood bouncing on his heels, a smug look on his face. He was in the lab when this occurred and not with the patient.

House directed his cold glare to the plastic surgeon. "We're a team," he said in a very low voice. "If I go down, we _all_ go down."

Taub stopped bouncing and his smug look disappeared.

About to say something more, the diagnostician stopped when he saw Wilson stride past his office on his way to his own. Forgetting what he was going to say, he told them to get lost and find the patient. As they began to clear out of his office, House said, "Thirteen."

The Fellow hung back, waiting silently for him to speak.

H e looked up at her, suddenly feeling deflated rather than angry. The knot in his stomach hurt almost as much as his leg did just then. He wasn't certain why he was doing it, but he needed someone to talk to someone who wasn't Wilson and she had shown support for Wilson and him lately.

"Kenny's back," he told her. "He was brought in by ambulance earlier today. He was backed over by a car and his father was nowhere around. His spleen was removed and surgery went well but he's in critical condition in ICU."

A look of shock crossed Thirteen's face. She shook her head in dismay.

"This is incredible," she commented. "That poor kid! Well, he's not going back to his father, is he? That's good for you and Wilson."

"No word on whether or not he'll be apprehended from the partner. Wilson was meeting with the worker from CPS and Cuddy, but I haven't had an opportunity to talk with him." House responded mildly, but there was a frown on his face. "I promised Kenny I'd protect him and I've failed miserably."

The younger doctor shook her head. "It's not your fault. It was CPS that made the decision to give him to his dad. He is going to be okay, isn't he?"

"If he doesn't develop any more bleeding or infection. They were pretty thorough looking for any bleeders. One of his kidneys was badly bruised as well and that's a bit of a concern. Time will tell how well it continues to function." The diagnostician sighed. What was he doing? What was it that he even wanted to talk about with Thirteen? Why did he have a sense of impending doom? Wilson had put him off earlier when he asked about the meeting, but that was likely due to the fact that he wasn't alone and couldn't talk. He shook his head in dismay.

"Are you going to be okay?" Thirteen asked him, taking a step closer to the desk. There was a great deal of concern in her voice.

"Yeah," House told her, shrugging it off. "I'm fine. Go find our patient—how can you lose a full-grown man?"

She smiled uneasily when she retorted, "Apparently very easily. I'll be going now."

House nodded, fighting the urge to smile at her comment. She left his office just as Wilson arrived. They exchanged greetings as they passed each other. He moved further into the room.

"Want to go for lunch?" he asked. "Cuddy's buying."

"We've gotta date with Cuddy?" the diagnostician asked him, smiling suggestively. "You devil you! I guess threesomes do add variety."

Wilson couldn't help but snigger. "I'm not sharing you with _anybody_. Seriously, we haven't touched base in a quite a while and she's making an overture. I think she's trying to restore the relationships she allowed to slide for a while. Her relationship with Lucas caused a lot of tension."

Housed nodded. People who were victims of domestic abuse often ended up becoming alienated from their family and friends, usually because the abuser would try to isolate him or her from other sources of encouragement and support, leaving him or her entirely dependent upon the abuser. It was part of the abuser's pathological need to be in control at all times. Sometimes this isolation was enforced overtly in the form of threats or harm if the victim failed to comply with the abuser's demands but often, as in Cuddy's case, the isolation was brought about much more subtly, often through creating tension and discomfort between the victim and other people in his or her life.

"Look," House said soberly as the elevator opened onto the lobby and the two doctors stepped off, "If you two want to talk privately, it's fine--."

"No," Wilson assured him. "She told me to invite you. Besides, we both can fill you in on how the meeting with Mrs. Talbot went at the same time."

Hearing an edge of frustration in his lover's voice the diagnostician assumed the meeting hadn't gone well. That only added to his impending sense of doom. _Stop it,_ House said to himself sternly. _Quit anticipating everything going wrong before it happens!_

At the cafeteria Cuddy was waiting and they went through the line together. House ordered a greasy bacon and cheese burger with fries smothered in thick brown gravy. Cuddy looked at his tray with disgust.

"I love to watch a middle-aged man clog his arteries and shorten his life by at least ten years," she said to him sarcastically. "You're going to make some cardiologist a rich man!"

House scowled at her but there was playfulness in his eyes. He looked pointedly at the small Chef's salad on her tray. "I'm a man—I eat like a man, not like a rabbit."

Their brief flirtation had been doomed from the start but he missed the verbal sparring and the wry joking they had had going. Things around the hospital just hadn't been the same since the bus accident and that strain on their friendship had been part of it. Misunderstandings were cleared up now, Lucas was no longer overshadowing her and her relationships outside of that-- and maybe they could get back to the way things were when they worked best—dysfunctionally platonic, but nevertheless the best for them.

Cuddy paid the cashier and they found a table.

Wilson smiled. "After this I have to go to the Clinic for a couple of hours."

She smiled. "Music to my ears," she told him.

House looked up from Wilson's French fries after stealing a few. "Have fun with that."

"Wouldn't hurt you to do a few of yours," Wilson told the diagnostician, earning a dirty look.

"He doesn't have any more hours this week," she told him, shaking her head in amazement. "I never thought the day would come when I'd hear myself say that."

House smirked. He was quite proud of himself. It wasn't that he had suddenly discovered a long hidden passion for the Clinic but he was working on meeting his responsibilities rather than running from them—an assignment given to him by his psychiatrist, of course.

"There's always next week," the diagnostician quipped. He sobered a little. "How's your shoulder?"

She shrugged. "It's a little sore but not bad," she dismissed. "Thank you both for sticking by me with…with this Lucas _thing_…."

"It's called abuse," Wilson told her. "You don't need to thank us. I wish you'd told us about it when he started behaving that way. Of course, if you had he probably be in a wheelchair as we speak."

"I felt ashamed," she admitted, avoiding both men's gazes.

"You need counseling," House told her simply. A year ago, before his own breakdown, he never would have said those three words. He was so anti-psychiatry that it took hallucinations and delusions that threatened his career and were destroying his life to make him seek out help. Grudgingly, he had learned that there was some merit to talking through issues that he least wanted to deal with. It wasn't fun and the jury was still out on whether or not it made him any more contented or happy but it did cut away a little at the fear and pain—that is, when he was honest with his psychiatrist and himself.

Both Cuddy and Wilson looked at him, mildly surprised, small smiles on their lips. House tried to ignore them. He decided to change the subject. "What happened with the CPS?"

The smiles on their faces disappeared; instead, anger appeared, especially with his lover. House wasn't certain that he wanted to know. He sighed silently, and the knot in his stomach tightened.

Wilson was the one who spoke. "Mrs. Talbot said that Kenny will be returning to the wardship of the state until he is placed in a foster home. We have to reapply to foster him…but our chances aren't as good as they were before."

House frowned in confusion. "Why not?" he asked, his gaze shifting back and forth between Wilson and Cuddy.

"Talbot's superior has decided that Kenny needs to be placed in a home that is more 'traditional' than ours," Wilson told him carefully, almost cringing in anticipation of the diagnostician's reaction.

House surprised them as well as himself when he didn't explode. His fists clenched into tight fists, his breathing increased and his jaw set; he wanted to hit someone and break a few things. That much was normal, but he wasn't surprised by the news. The past month had taught him that despite the lip service in pop media and government vernacular, those living so-called alternative lifestyles were blacklisted from pursuing the same rights and freedoms as everyone else. It was amazing how powerful a hold ignorance and fear had on society.

"It's illegal," Wilson spoke up when his partner remained silent. "We have legal recourse if we can prove that we are in fact being discriminated against solely because we're a same-sex couple. That's the tricky part. Mrs. Talbot is actually on our side and is working on our behalf as much as she can, but her hands are basically tied."

House nodded, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, trying to release tension from his body as he did. He absently massaged his aching thigh. "So, we consult a lawyer. So help me, James, I'm not allowing CPS to screw with that kid's life again. I promised him I would protect him and damnit I will, CPS be damned!"

Wilson nodded, grasping one of House's fists. The diagnostician's hand relaxed but his tumultuous emotions would not be soothed so easily.

"I'll call my adoption lawyer right after lunch," Cuddy told them reassuringly. "He's very good. I'm certain he'll be able to direct you two in the right direction."

House looked at the Dean of Medicine and saw nothing but genuine concern in her grey-blue eyes. He nodded, giving her a small smile of appreciation. She returned it and placed her hand over top both Wilson's and his and it felt good.

* * *

After work, House and Wilson sat in Kenny's room. Lead wires and tubes were everywhere and the heart monitor quietly beeped out the slightly bradycardic but normal rhythm of the little boy's heart.

"I don't care about CPS," the diagnostician said softly to his partner as he gently caressed Kenny's blond hair. "He's not going anywhere other than with us. I'll fight it in the courts if I have to."

Wilson looked at him, brown eyes meeting blue, and nodded. "_We_ will."

House gave him a small appreciative smile and nod. They stayed for about an hour; Kenny would likely sleep pretty much constantly from the painkillers and would have no idea that they were there anyway.

After returning to their offices to grab their jackets and things the two men were on their way out when House's three fellows caught up to him in the lobby.

The diagnostician looked at them expectantly. "_Tell _me that you found our patient," he demanded.

Wilson shot him a quizzical look. "You _lost_ a patient?"

House sighed loudly. "No…my idiots here lost a patient but they're here now to tell me that they found him—_right_?"

"Actually, we did," Taub answered, avoiding House's eyes.

The diagnostician was secretly relieved but he was in no mood to let them off the hook so easily. "Where?" he asked, curious to know.

None of the three immediately volunteered the answer but Thirteen was nudged forward by Chase. She glared daggers at him and then said to House. "In the maternity ward."

House blinked a couple of times, certain that he had heard incorrectly. He opened his mouth to ask why and how but decided he was just too spent to bother. Tomorrow, after some sleep, he would hear the story and use it to humiliate his team somehow.

"You know what," he told his ducklings in what was more of a groan than anything else, "I don't want to know. By the way, _it's not Lupus_. He's got Behcet's Syndrome…the ulcer on his winky is a dead giveaway. Go treat him accordingly—now!" He turned back in the direction of the main doors. Thirteen caught up to the two men before they could leave.

"How's Kenny doing?" She asked.

"As well as to be expected," Wilson told her with a weak smile.

"Maybe I'll peek in on him before I head home," the Fellow said with a smile and then walked away.

* * *

The bedroom was dark except for a thin stream of light that snuck past the curtains and fell across the foot of their bed. It was muted light from street lamps outside. Wilson lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully. His arms were wrapped around House and House's were wrapped around the younger man's waist, his head wresting on Wilson's bare chest. They had made love and now laid in the quiet, listening to each other breathe.

"James?" House whispered, not moving an iota.

"Mm-hmm?" the younger man acknowledged.

"I'm getting soft-- I'm no longer a completely heartless bastard."

"I know."

"Part of me liked being a bastard."

"Trust me, "Wilson assured him, "you still are one…except for the 'completely' part."

"I'd like to see Cuddy's lawyer as soon as possible."

"We'll call first thing in the morning."

House nuzzled in to Wilson, trying to get closer to him if that was even possible. Wilson tightened his arms around him in response. Life often sucked and it certainly wasn't fair but _sometimes_, like that very moment for instance, it could be good; the good and the bad, Yin and Yang, joy and sorrow. If you were lucky in this life, he decided, you spent most of your time floating somewhere in between, sinking to the bottom as seldom as possible and occasionally coming up on the good side for air.


	10. Chapter 10 Stare Decisis

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Well, this was supposed to be the final chapter but I guess I underestimated—that and I got a few comments from my family about what they'd like to see happen next…so anyway, there will be more to follow, for good or for bad! Any 'legal decisions' mentioned herein are purely fictional.

Reviews always welcome—like Hot Chocolate after a day of skiing!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated T** for coarse language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

* * *

**Chapter Ten—Stare Decisis**

_Def'n: __Stare Decisis:_ (law) the policy of the court to stand by precedent.

Their meeting with the lawyer changed Dr. Gregory House's mind about all lawyers; he decided that they all weren't pathological liars willing to do just about anything to win. A few were dedicated to seeing justice done without selling their souls to the devil. Wilson and he had made an appointment with Cuddy's adoption lawyer to discuss their options concerning CPS's decision to choose a foster home that was heterosexual in one where the foster parents were an alternative lifestyle pairing such as the diagnostician and oncologist were because a heterosexual partnership would be a better, more stable environment for an abused child like Kenny Baker.

Maxwell Kingsley, a very gregarious but knowledgeable attorney, had been able to provide them with reasons to be hopeful. He told them that such discriminatory policies were, unfortunately, all too common when dealing with CPS and many other government agencies. Despite the more liberally-minded propaganda spewed out by government public relations spin doctors, actual policies and attitudes at work in the bureaucratic mousetraps called government agencies operated on beliefs and principles that dated back to the nineteen fifties or earlier. Kingsley told them of a case he had handled recently where his clients who happened to be in a lesbian relationship were denied approval to adopt a three-year-old girl because, it came out in court, there was the concern that there was 'an increased possibility of child molestation in their home'. In rebuttal, the lawyer had been able to provide highly credible witnesses to attest that there was no sociological or psychological basis found by research for such a claim; CPS's position had been based on ignorance, not fact.

The judge had ruled in favor of his clients, setting a precedent that the declination of adoption based on issues pertaining to sexual preference was a violation of the Constitution. While that would likely have very little impact in the larger picture nationwide it was still in court record and his clients were vindicated; they successfully adopted their little girl as a result. CPS could have appealed the decision to a higher court they failed to do so, probably to over further negative publicity.

Their next steps were to wait for CPS's decision concerning their application to foster Kenny. If they were awarded as his foster parents, then great; if not, then a formal request would be sent to inquire as to the reasons for House and Wilson being declined. If that request was denied or the explanation showed conscious discrimination, then further legal action, both criminal and civil, would be taken. The fact that they had been selected previously to be Kenny's foster parents, prior to this new policy would definitely be to their advantage should it come to a trial.

The couple left Kingsley's office with a little more hope than they had arrived with but neither House nor Wilson was naïve. They could do all the right things and still fail to receive refusal to care for Kenny based on technicalities of which there were too many to count.

In the meantime, life continued on as if there was nothing amiss. Five days a week both doctors spent their days at work diagnosing and treating patients, losing one or two along the way; not everyone got better and lived happily ever after. This was reality, not a fairy tale. House continued to take only the most bizarre and impossible cases which he skillfully solved, usually just in the nick of time with the help of his motley crew of Fellows; Wilson continued giving hopeful news to the lucky and comfort to those who weren't. Overseeing treatments, completing rounds and the endless filing of paperwork filled his days. At lunch the diagnostician and oncologist would lunch in the cafeteria or in one of their respective offices. Occasionally they would meet in more private places to engage in other things rather than lunch. Clinic examination rooms tended to be a good place to meet for such 'consultations'. If time didn't afford them the opportunity during the day, House and Wilson had most of their evenings to indulge.

While Kenny was recovering in the hospital House took up from where he had left off with his incredible bedtime stories told to the child at bedtime. Each day more and more 'passers-by' would show up very coincidentally in time to watch the performance to the point where House didn't even bother objecting or closing the blinds anymore. It was no secret anymore that the curmudgeon diagnostician was a master story teller. After just a couple of days nurses from pediatrics began bringing the more ambulatory children down to listen in before going to bed. House made a big fuss about it at the same time he was holding the door to Kenny's room open to allow the juvenile visitors in for front row seats.

The truth was, House was really enjoying himself. He not only got to see the look of enthusiasm on Kenny's face but on the faces of the other children as well. He would pretend to be angry at the attention but very few people bought his act anymore. Wilson would often come to watch his lover at work entertaining his fans, sitting quietly on the other side of Kenny's bed and holding his hand or allowing one of the small children to sit quietly on his lap. The oncologist couldn't get over just how much people and circumstances could change in the matter of just one year.

That's not to say that things went the way they had hoped. They were, in fact, rejected by CPS and their demand for a letter of explanation was ignored. Kingsley filed the law suit but because the court was horribly backlogged, their case wouldn't be brought before a judge for at least three months. In the meantime Kenny would have become adjusted to his new foster parents and it was questionable whether or not it would in fact be in Kenny's best interest to once again take him out of a home and placed into a brand new situation. After a long discussion with their lawyer, and evidence that Kenny was adjusting well to his current foster parents, the doctors grudgingly withdrew their law suit. House took it very hard for a few days before appearing to bounce back from the disappointment. He and Wilson would adopt; Kingsley suggested to them to go the route of a private adoption where they would face a few less hoops to jump through than through the state.

There were periods of time when House had no case and got bored; anyone who was the least bit acquainted with the world-renowned diagnostician knew that a bored House was a dangerous, unpredictable and chaos-engendering force to be feared. He engaged in anything from rants aimed at anyone he happened upon to over-the-top practical jokes aimed at Wilson, one or more of his fellows and even the Dean of Medicine, Dr. Lisa Cuddy. No one was safe when House was looking for something to occupy his brilliant mind and overactive, diabolical imagination.

It wasn't all 'fun and games', though. No one but Wilson knew how severe House's bouts of depression could be, the lows he would sink to. Sometimes they genuinely terrified the oncologist. It pained him greatly to see the man he loved so much suffer so much and not be able to do anything to help him. The disappointment over losing Kenny wasn't the only stressor aggravating the diagnostician's lows; Wilson had been able to surmise through brief statements offered randomly from time to time that House's sessions with his psychiatrist were not going as well as they used to. There was some sort of conflict taking place between Dr. Nolan and House but whatever it was about House refused to say and the law prevented the psychiatrist from sharing anything said or done during therapy with the oncologist.

There were some days where House wouldn't go in to work, calling in sick and spending practically the entire day in bed. As far as Wilson could tell, there wasn't anything physically wrong with his lover but he knew that the depression was very real and debilitating, more so than he had ever seen it affect the diagnostician before. Occasionally Wilson would spend the morning at home with him, working on paperwork. Most of the time, however, the oncologist would be forced to leave him alone from early morning until he arrived home again after six in the evening. Throughout the entire day Wilson would worry whether or not House was safe; all kinds of horrible scenarios would flash across the back of his eyes at the most random of times. The most horrible one was the image of coming home to find that House had injected himself with a lethal overdose of some kind and was lying dead on the floor.

It got to the point where the oncologist began to search his partner's things when House wasn't around. What he was looking for, exactly, he wasn't certain. He was hoping to find something that would explain what was going on with the older man. On one such search through House's closet, Wilson found a sock filled with something stuffed into one of the dozen or so running shoes and sneakers the diagnostician owned. It felt like there were beans or something tied inside. Wilson took the sock and untied it over their bed and turned it upside down to empty the contents. He wasn't expecting what he found. At least one hundred tablets of Luvox fell to the bed. They were House's psych meds prescribed to him by Dr. Nolan. Wilson went immediately to the medicine cabinet and looked at the different pill bottles. A half-full bottle of Luvox sat in there.

House was no longer taking his anti-depressant medication, hadn't been for what looked like close to two months. It made sense-- the increased depression, lethargy, irritability. The tablets in the pill bottle were decreasing daily but instead of going into the diagnostician they were going into the sock in the sneaker in the closet. This could be the cause of conflict between Nolan and House. Perhaps Nolan caught onto the fact that House had stopped taking his medication and confronted him about it. Or, perhaps Nolan didn't know.

Wilson put the tablets back into the sock, tied a knot in it, shoved it back into the sneaker and replaced the shoe into the closet. He sat down tiredly on the bed, trying to fathom why his partner would do such a thing. House had been doing so well for so long that the oncologist had become less attentive to the small signs and behaviors that could have indicated that he wasn't doing so well anymore, until this point where he feared for the older man's sobriety and even his life. He felt sad, disappointed, even hurt. However, he felt angry as well at being intentionally deceived and left out of the loop. Now that he knew, Wilson didn't know what to do with that knowledge. Should he openly confront House, or should he leave hints instead? Should he call Nolan and tell him about this discovery or should he keep it quiet and do nothing with the hope that whatever is going on with the older man would eventually work itself out?

Wilson was still sitting on the edge of the bed, looking completely dejected when a half-an-hour later House returned from his walk and entered the bedroom. Wilson didn't move, didn't acknowledge that the diagnostician's presence had registered with him. The older man stopped beside the younger and nudged the younger's leg with his cane.

"Wilson?" House verbalized; his voice was low and gravelly. "What are you doing?"

The oncologist didn't look up. He knew he couldn't look his lover in those perfect blue eyes and not let on that he knew.

"Wilson?" the younger man echoed, an edge of bitterness in his voice. "What happened to James? Are we back to the last name basis again?"

Huffing, House moved around to the other side of the oncologist and sat down on the bed next to him, close but not touching him.

"What's wrong?" the diagnostician asked simply.

This was it—did the younger man tell his best friend and partner that he knew that the latter had stopped taking his meds or did he keep his mouth shut and make something up? The problem with making something up was that he wasn't a very good liar and someone with the observational skills and intuition that House possessed would pick up on that almost instantly.

"I just found out something upsetting today," Wilson answered, "and I don't know what to do with the information. It's rather delicate and if I handle the situation in the wrong way I could end up causing a great deal of harm."

"Does it have to do with family?"

"No," Wilson answered. He took a breath and held his breath. "You."

House sighed heavily and looked up at the ceiling. "What did I do now that's pissed you off?"

The younger man looked up at him. His face was grave, the normally faint lines around his eyes and mouth now appearing deeper. He had no idea what to say next. Was he pissed off at House? Yes, he was, a little, but he was mostly worried about him. He feared that the stopping of the meds and the resulting depression could lead to more self-harming behavior, including a full relapse.

"I'm …worried, Greg. I'm really worried about you," the oncologist answered, shaking his head. "You're depressed; there's something wrong and you won't talk to me about it."

"It's nothing," the diagnostician told him softly, not looking at him.

Wilson shook his head in disbelief, saying, "It's _something_. Please be honest with me!"

"I am," House insisted, becoming annoyed. "What do you want from me?"

"The truth!" his partner told him, raising his voice. House rose from the bed and began to limp angrily out of the room.

"Do you love me?" Wilson called after him. The diagnostician stopped and turned towards him

"Don't." It was said softly but with an edge. The younger man wasn't certain whether or not it was a request or a warning. He didn't want to push his partner too far. He didn't want to alienate him, but Wilson knew that if they couldn't be honest with each other their relationship wouldn't last and the thought of losing him terrified the oncologist.

"Do. You. Love. Me?" repeated Wilson, separating each word to make them distinct and hopefully more powerful.

House hesitated a couple of heartbeats; the expression on his face and in his eyes was a combination of anger, hurt and fear. "If you don't know the answer to that by now then nothing I tell you is going to make any difference!" The older man turned and headed towards the front door. Wilson rose with the intention of following but by the time he reached the bedroom door he heard the front door slam shut.

Cursing softly, the oncologist decided against running after him. House needed to take responsibility for his own actions and become accountable for them. As much as he wanted to rescue and protect his lover he knew that doing so would be more harmful than good. He was not going to start enabling him again; he had done that for far too long in the past to the detriment of the diagnostician.

That being the case, Wilson didn't want to completely turn a blind eye to his best friend's dangerous behavior; he loved him too much to abandon him that way. He went back to the closet and withdrew the sock again. He untied it and dumped the tablets into his hand, tossing the sock aside. A couple fell to the floor and he quickly picked them up and began to count them. He wanted to know the exact number. One hundred and four tablets rested in his hands. House was supposed to take two a day, which meant for fifty-two days he had been deceiving him. But why? Why would he stop taking his meds and then try to cover it up?

He didn't want to do it, but he felt he had no other choice. He went to the phone and dialed up Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital.

The call was answered by an automated switching machine and Wilson punched the extension code for Dr. Darryl Nolan's office into the keypad. It rang three times before someone picked up.

"Doctor Nolan's office," a female voice answered pleasantly. "How may I help you?"

Swallowing hard, the oncologist said, "This is Doctor James Wilson from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I would like to speak to Dr. Nolan, please."

"He's currently in with a patient," was the answer. "I can have him return your call once he's free?"

"How long will that be?" Wilson asked her, checking his watch. He had told Cuddy that he would be in for work by noon. It was a little past ten-thirty.

"Not before eleven," the receptionist told him. "Is there a number I can have him reach you at?"

Wilson sighed silently. "Yes," he answered, giving her his number at the hospital. "Have him call me there as soon as possible."

"I'll give him the message, Dr. Wilson," she told him. Wilson hung up and then went to the small writing desk in the living room and withdrew an envelope from a drawer. He dumped the pills into it and folded the envelope, sticking it in his overcoat pocket by the door. He noticed that the key to House's motorcycle was gone but his helmet still hung by the door.

"Damn it, Greg!" Wilson said out loud. His partner was in a reckless mood and that rarely ended up well. He headed to the bedroom to change for work.

* * *

Most of his afternoon was spent with appointments with patients and rounds. When four o'clock came around Wilson was alone in his office; Nolan hadn't returned his call yet and he was becoming impatient. He didn't want to have the psychiatrist call him at home just in case House was there and happened to answer the phone. He felt a little guilty about behaving so secretively, but if his partner would simply talk to him and tell the truth, the oncologist wouldn't have the need to go behind his lover's back.

Wilson had it set for his pager to be called should Nolan's call come in while he was out of his office. He felt a little nauseous from worry and decided to go down to the cafeteria to get some of the herbal ginger tea they had there. While standing in line to pay, he noticed Dr. Robert Chase seated alone at a table with a cup of coffee, going over what appeared to be lab reports. After paying, the oncologist approached House's team member.

"May I join you?" Wilson asked. Chase looked up from his reading and nodded his blond head.

"Sure."

Sitting down opposite the younger doctor Wilson said, "New case?"

Chase shook his head, "Old one, one we didn't solve in time. I'm trying to see if there were any indicators we missed that could have changed the result if we had."

The oncologist nodded and took a sip of his tea before asking, "Has House checked in today?" He tried to sound nonchalant but his shaking hand betrayed him.

"No," the Australian-born doctor answered. "I was about to ask you what's up with him lately. He's been missing more often than he's been here the last couple or three weeks."

At first he thought about lying but then remembered how bad a liar he was (how he could forget that he didn't know—House was constantly reminding him of it) and decided upon the truth. Sighing, Wilson answered, "I don't know. He's been a little depressed lately."

"Over this thing with Kenny?" Chase asked. The older doctor looked surprised.

"How did you know about that?" the older doctor demanded. They hadn't been publicizing their relationship or their quest to foster Kenny; it wasn't a secret, but both he and House felt that their private lives were nobody else's business.

"Thirteen told me," Chase replied with a shrug. He took a sip of his coffee. "We were talking and she mentioned it. It's not a secret, is it?"

Shaking his head, the oncologist told him, "No. So she also told you about…?"

"About you and House?" the younger doctor finished for him. "She didn't have to. It's on the grapevine. Besides, I've known for years you two were in love with each other just by watching you interact. I guess you could say I was wondering how long it would take for the two of you to realize it."

Wilson smiled weakly at that, a slight blush appearing across his cheekbones. He took a couple of sips to hide his self-consciousness. "I think Kenny may be part of it but there's something else that I really shouldn't talk about."

"Okay," Chase said mildly, nodding. "But you don't know where he is right now?"

Shaking his head and frowning with worry, Wilson shook his head. "No. He left this morning in a bad mood and took his bike without his helmet…a sure sign that things are definitely not good."

Chase frowned slightly. "Is it possible that he's using again?"

The oncologist didn't answer right away. He had to admit that the idea had crossed his mind of late and especially after his discovery today but he simply hadn't noticed any of the normal indicators of opiate abuse with the diagnostician.

"I don't think so," he answered unconvincingly. _I hope not_, he thought grimly, not sharing that with the Fellow. "Well, I guess I should get back to work." He rose from the table.

"Have fun," Chase quipped in farewell. Wilson smirked at that and made his way back to his office. Along the way his pager went off. He checked it; it was Nolan. He hurried his pace and took the call less than a minute and a half later in the privacy of his office.

"Hello Darryl," he said into the mouthpiece of the phone to his friend.

"How are you, James?" the psychiatrist responded with his smooth, mellow voice. "I'm sorry for the delay in getting back to you."

"No problem," Wilson half-lied. "Actually, I'm calling about Greg House."

"I figured as much," Nolan responded. "You do realize that I can't relate to you anything shared in therapy, don't you?"

"Of course," the oncologist acknowledged. "I completely understand. I called to tell you something I think you should know that you may not."

"Go on."

Biting the inside of his cheek, Wilson said, "I feel guilty about going behind Greg's back, but I'm very concerned about his behavior lately…I discovered today that he hasn't been taking his anti-depressants for fifty-two days now. I found the untaken pills hidden in his closet."

"You 'found' them in his closet?" Nolan repeated questioningly.

"Okay, I was snooping and came across them," the oncologist admitted sheepishly. "Actually, I was afraid that I would find Vicodin. This upset me almost as much. Darryl, his behavior has become erratic and unpredictable and there's been an increase in risk-taking behavior as well. I know you can't tell me what is said in therapy…I guess I was hoping you could assure me he was going to be alright."

There was a pause before the psychiatrist responded. "I can tell you this…the latest receipt stub I have for payment of services rendered dates back to February fifteenth."

Wilson felt his heart fall into his stomach. "This is April twelfth…you mean he hasn't been in to see you in almost two months? Isn't he supposed to be seeing you biweekly?"

"We were scheduled for biweekly appointments," Nolan stated, "but following the February fifteenth appointment we have been scheduled for weekly. That's all I can say, James. I'm pushing the envelope as it is."

"Shit," Wilson said softly. Louder he said into the phone, "Every other week he leaves here saying he has an appointment so he'll be late coming home. Thank you, Darryl. I appreciate your help. I'll keep you up to date. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

Wilson hung up the phone, feeling completely defeated. He sat in the executive's chair behind his desk for a long time, lost in thought. He had a two foot stack of files that required his attention but he didn't touch them. He knew that House deeply valued his privacy in spite of his often overly dramatic public displays of sarcasm, lewdness or anger. That being the case, what he was about to do next was probably going to blow up in his face if the diagnostician ever discovered what he was up to, but the oncologist couldn't just sit still and do nothing but watch his lover self-destruct.

He started stage one right away. After locking his office on his way out, Wilson strode towards the elevator. He was headed for the office of the Dean of Medicine, hoping that she was in and had a couple of minutes to spare. Once in the Lobby he headed through the Clinic to her outer office. He could see from there that she was busy working on her computer. He proceeded to the door of the inner office and rapped on it.

Cuddy looked up and seeing him standing there waved him in. Taking a deep breath he entered and walked up to her desk and then froze, beginning to second guess himself.

"Wilson?" his boss said, trying to get his attention, a curious smirk on her face.

"Hmm?" the oncologist said, breaking away from his musings suddenly. "Oh, sorry." He began to wring his hands in anxiety. "Lisa, I need you to do me a favor."

Cuddy sat back in her chair, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I need _you_ to get House to haul his ass in here once in a while and actually work for the paycheck he gets."

"I know," Wilson acknowledged, swallowing hard and hoping his nervous stomach would settle down soon. Seeing that her Chief of Oncology was genuinely upset about something, the hospital administrator stood up and came around her desk to him.

"Sit with me," she said, guiding him to the sofa. He sat and she did as well. "What's wrong, James? It's House, isn't it? What has he done now?"

Unable to hold it back any longer, Wilson related to her everything that House had been doing over the past three weeks and his discovery of the pills. He also mentioned the conversation he had just had with Nolan. There was a tear or two in his eyes but they didn't fall. Cuddy listened quietly, frowning. When he was finished her face was a mask of concern as well.

"Is he back on Vicodin?" she asked the oncologist. Wilson shrugged, shook his head and then sighed.

"I don't think so," he admitted. "I haven't seen any evidence that he's been using again, and I haven't come across any drugs. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt and trust him."

Cuddy shook her head and took his hand comfortingly. "We both know how secretive and sneaky House is capable of being when he's doing something he doesn't want us to know about. Trust is good but sometimes you have to throw that out the window if he's not giving you enough reason to trust him!"

"But that was before," Wilson argued, "Before he went to Rehab…." Wilson's voice trailed off when he heard his own words as if someone else had said them to him. House behaved this way while he was still popping Vicodin like Tic-Tacs, before the dementia and hallucinations threatened his career and his life itself. He had to be hospitalized for treatment with the hope that as he detoxed from the drugs and received treatment the psychosis would disappear as well. It had and the diagnostician had gradually begun to really heal and take back his life, for nearly a year. But now…now was that something of the past? Had House descended into the nightmare again? The oncologist had done a lot of refresher reading about addictions over the year; he knew that a large number of addicts relapsed within the first year of sobriety; if they sought out help right away they had an excellent chance of full recovery but if they delayed too long the odds of a happy ending were substantially reduced.

Had his lover and best friend relapsed or was he on the verge of doing so?

"That's why I'm here," Wilson told her with more determination. "If he has relapsed and I ask him about it he will deny it or become incredibly defensive and angry. I want you to order him to have a random drug test taken and make certain he has no opportunity to fake it or get out of it. Unless he outright refuses to comply, he'll have no more opportunity to lie and cover for himself. Say it's a requirement for his job, say whatever."

Cuddy's lips were pressed into a straight line and she nodded grimly.

"It _is_ a requirement," she told him. "He knew when he was rehired that at anytime upon demand he has to comply with random testing both by the hospital and the state board. The fact that he's been missing so much work and I have a suspicion is all the grounds I need to have it done. For it to work, though, we have to catch him unaware while he's here at the hospital. Can you convince him to come in to work tomorrow?"

Thinking for a moment first, Wilson told her, "Find him a case and he won't hesitate. If you can't find one, tell him you have one for him anyway. This has to be done." He shook his head and then rubbed his face tiredly with his hands. "I just hope he decides to come home tonight or doesn't end up killing himself on that bike. I don't want to have to go behind his back like this, but I have to because…because I love him." A single tear left his eye. He wanted to break down into sobs but that could wait until he was alone. The oncologist quickly brushed the tear away with his fist. Cuddy gave him a hug and he didn't resist it; it felt good to be comforted by someone he knew cared for House almost as much as he did.

Wilson withdrew and gave Cuddy a small, mirthless smile before getting up from the sofa. She rose with him.

"Thanks, Lisa," he said to her before he left her office to complete stage two.

* * *

He watched as a group of cyclists rode past him along the Delaware and Raritan Canal State Park trail, pushing southward towards the main campus of Princeton University. His startling blue eyes followed them for quite some distance before he grew bored of it and turned back around. Leaning against the safety rail Gregory House stared pensively across the rippling waters of Carnegie Lake. A cool late afternoon breeze bounced off of the waters and into his face and he savored the feel of it. He tried not to think about what had occurred earlier in the day. It only made him angry and resentful and he couldn't afford to harbor those emotions just now. His heart hurt badly enough.

He had planned on coming clean to Wilson about the extra antidepressants he had obtained less than legally, eventually. At the same time he planned on sharing with his lover what it was that was affecting his mood and habits of late, but he just hadn't been able to find the right moment to do so, a slice of time where he could be certain that Wilson's reaction would be positive rather than negative. It never came. It killed him not to be able to share his most intimate thoughts and feelings; there was a time in the not too distant past that he had found it impossible to trust anyone enough to reveal his innermost being in such a deeply personal way. He was terrified of vulnerability. He had been hurt so badly when he had been at his most vulnerable. Now that he and Wilson had admitted to themselves and to each other just how much in love they were, it had become increasingly easier to open up and share such raw feelings with his partner, his best friend. Now…well now he knew he had ruined that intimacy and didn't know if he could ever reclaim it again. He wondered if Wilson would ever be able to forgive him. He hoped so, he wanted him to more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. He still planned on telling the oncologist the truth someday, when the time was right.

House had watched the condo until he saw his lover pull out of the parking garage on his way to work before returning on his bike, parking it in his stall and heading up to the loft to pack. He knew he had to pack light, whatever he could take with him on the motorcycle. He threw a few full changes of clothes and shoes into a duffle bag. Likewise he went to the ensuite and packed the basic toiletries he would need, his pain meds, enough to last him until he could settle and find a doctor to take over his care. Along with the pain meds he threw in a pill bottle filled with Coumadin; he'd been taking a low dose of the blood thinner ever since his leg infarction to prevent the formation of another clot that could end up killing him the next time, and his Luvox. As he did this his eye caught something lying on the floor on Wilson's side of the bed; if it had been his side of the bed he wouldn't have noticed it amidst the other clothes, books and miscellaneous junk littering the floor there. He bent down and picked the item up. It was a mangled looking sock when he turned it upside down a single pill fell out. It was the sock, the one he had hidden in his closet. Socks didn't have feet; therefore Wilson had been in his closet snooping and had found him out.

Sighing, he threw the sock back onto the floor, gathered up the duffle bag and headed to the kitchen. He needed to take food that was light, self-contained and either ready to eat out of the package or very easily heated. He took some granola and energy bars that Wilson ate, along with some apples, two yogurt cups, some of his beef jerky and a couple of bottles of water. It would have to do—he could pick up more while on the road. The last thing he grabbed was his laptop. He was just about to head out again when he saw the light on the answering machine flashing insistently with a new message. Hesitating a moment, his curiosity won out and he pressed the play button.

There was a beep and then the message; the voice was Wilson's.

_"Greg, if you're there, please pick up the phone, I really…I really need to hear your voice right now…Okay, well maybe you haven't returned yet. I'm sorry about this morning. I'm concerned about you. I have a confession…I found your stash of untaken Luvox today. Yes, I was snooping. I don't understand, but I want to. I know I have a tendency to judge you and psychoanalyze you, which I know you hate, but I'll try not to if you'll just talk to me. Look, I'm running out of recording time…I'll be home around the same time as usual. Stick around, okay? I have to go. I love you, Greg. Okay, Bye."_

The diagnostician stood for several minutes without moving. Damn him! Why did Wilson have to make this even harder to do than it already was? The diagnostician replayed the message over again twice, focusing on the last sentence each time. _I love you, Greg_._ I love you, Greg._

"I love you, too," House whispered. His eyes were wet and he vainly tried to blink them away. For a split second he hesitated, considered bailing out and staying there, spending the evening talking with his lover, maybe making love afterwards, maybe not, maybe just holding each other.

_Stop it!_

Pressing down the record button, he left a message of his own; it came from the depths of his soul. The words were simple and perhaps a little clumsy, but they were true.

With that completed he gathered his duffle bag, remembered his helmet this time and then left the condo for what he hoped _wasn't_ the last time.


	11. Chapter 11 Premeditation

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Wow! Thank you for the great reviews! Yes, this is an unexpected twist, a deviation if you will, but it will all make sense soon! I'm a romantic at heart, and with romance comes angst as well as joy! Sorry for taking so long to update…been kinda busy as 'chauffer' and 'parole officer' lately, but my kids are worth it!

Reviews always welcome—like a hot bubble bath after a stressful day!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated T** for coarse language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven—Premeditation**

A last minute emergency with one of his more critical patients forced Dr. James Wilson to remain late at the hospital. He spent most of that time monitoring a thirty-eight-year-old woman with metastatic stage three ovarian cancer and then sitting with her husband and teenage daughters with the horrible job of telling them that a new tumor was found in her brain and she wouldn't live more than six to eight hours at the most. The husband was strong and held it together for his children but the daughters broke down and were inconsolable. The younger girl had asked him angrily what good was it for their mom to have a cancer specialist if he couldn't keep her from dying any better than a 'normal' doctor could. The father had chastised her but Wilson had assured him that it was alright; people in grief often said cruel and unusual things that they would never say under normal circumstances. It was a true statement and the oncologist knew that he had done everything possible for her mother, but it still disturbed him. He felt crummy that those beautiful girls and their doting father would have to go on without the mother and wife they loved—it wasn't fair, it wasn't right, but unfortunately it was life. Thirty-eight was too young to die.

He headed home as soon as he could, promising the family that he would return when the time came for his patient's death. He tried to put them out of his mind for a while; he had his own personal issues to deal with. His lover and best friend, Dr. Gregory House, hadn't returned his phone calls both to the loft and his cell phone; Wilson had thought of little else the entire day but of the argument he had had with the diagnostician earlier that morning. Worried that something bad may have happened to him, the oncologist was anxious to get home, hoping that House would be there in front of the TV in one healthy piece.

As he parked his Volvo in his stall in the parking garage Wilson noticed that House's stall was still empty. Discouraged Wilson grabbed his briefcase and got out of the car, slamming the door a little harder than was necessary. He hurried up the stairwell and into the Condo complex, taking the stairs up to the loft. He didn't feel like waiting for a stupid elevator. He wasn't certain if he was worried or pissed; perhaps he was both. At his door Wilson unlocked it and moved inside, flipping a switch on the wall which turned on the foyer light. He shut the door a little loudly as well.

"Greg?" the oncologist called out as he removed his jacket and hung it up. He set the briefcase down on the floor by the coat rack and then ventured further into the loft, turning on lights as he did. "Greg are you here?"

There was no answer, not that he was really expecting there to be one. He looked around the living room. It looked so empty all of a sudden.

_Where are you, Greg?_ Wilson thought, shaking his head in dismay. Loosening his tie tiredly he headed to the bedroom to have a shower and then he'd make dinner. The hospital could page him at anytime to return if his patient started to crash. He undressed and then went into the ensuite. Moving to the bathtub he started the water and adjusted it for temperature before pulling the valve and starting the water flow through the showerhead. Stepping in, he just stood underneath the spray for a few minutes, allowing the hot water to pound the stress out of him. The oncologist focused on what he would prepare for dinner, what the ingredients were, what cookware and utensils he would need…anything and everything but the diagnostician.

Once finished with his shower Wilson went to the sink to shave. He opened the medicine cabinet where he kept his razor. His reach for it stopped halfway when he noticed that the cabinet looked emptier than it had that morning. Every pill bottle belonging to House was gone, as was his razor. A knot of anxiety began to form in the pit of the oncologist's stomach. He began to look around the bathroom more closely; House's toothbrush, aftershave, deodorant were all missing. Wilson wrapped a towel around his waist out of force of habit and left the ensuite. In the bedroom he began to look in House's dresser drawers and closet. In each space he found clothing and personal items missing, including the diagnostician's duffle bag.

The knot in his stomach disappeared and was replaced by his heart as it fell. As he began to realize that his lover had left him, Wilson felt positively sick to his stomach. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands in his lap and his head sagging. He felt numb. Why? Why did House leave? What had he done to drive the older man away? Where was he going? Was there something wrong other than their relationship that had caused this? Was there…was there someone else?

He hid his face in his hands, feeling like he was about to sob but strangely unable to do so. He didn't feel angry—he was incredibly sad, heartbroken. Nothing made any sense. If House had been unhappy in their relationship, why hadn't he just said something to him? They could have talked it out. They were supposed to be best friends, after all. That's what best friends were supposed to do! Was this about the antidepressants? Was his cessation of their use connected to this? The possibility that something psychological may be wrong with the older man struck fear in him. What if he was so depressed he had plans to harm himself? Was it possible he was having psychotic breaks again? Could he be riding around Princeton somewhere in the midst of another delusion, hallucinating people, places and things that didn't exist in reality? If the diagnostician had relapsed and started on the Vicodin again, it was a very real possibility.

Wilson didn't know what to do or think. What he didn't want to believe was that House had simply grown tired of their relationship, had fallen out of love with him and had moved on. He couldn't allow himself to entertain that possibility because it was just too painful to even consider.

Climbing onto the bed Wilson lay down and curled up into the fetal position, and was finally able to sob, hugging himself, his body shaking and nearly convulsing with every single one. Once his crying subsided he was so physically spent from it that he fell asleep.

It was a couple of hours later when he awoke, a little disoriented at first. Wilson looked around the bedroom dozily and then remembered. House was gone. He swallowed hard as a lump began to form in his throat again. It felt to him like someone had reached into his chest and tore his heart out. Without any energy, he decided that he had better get dressed and grab something to eat, even if he didn't feel at all hungry. If he didn't eat and was called in to the hospital halfway through the night his blood sugars would drop to next to nothing which never is a good thing.

He pulled on a crew-neck sweater and a pair of khakis; comfort was more important to him than anything else just then. He made his way despondently to the kitchen. On the way he noticed that the message light on the answering machine was blinking. It was probably still the message that he had left for House earlier in the day, but just in case it was from a different source he went to the phone and pressed the blinking playback button.

House's voice filled the air. "James…the answer to your question is _yes_. More than anyone else, ever. I have to go away for a while and it's best if I don't tell you where. That way, when the cops come looking for me, you can honestly tell them that you don't know where I am. When it's safe, I'll contact you. I would have told you sooner but you would have tried to stop me. About the drugs…don't worry about it. I'm in control—please trust me. My leaving has _nothing_ to do with you. These past few months have been the best I've known. What they did was wrong for everyone; it's up to me to make things right. I've got to go before I change my mind. Remember…I love you."

Wilson stared at the answering machine in stunned silence. His reaction to his lover's message was mixed; hearing him say that he still loved him helped ease away the heartache the younger man had been feeling but the mystery, the uncertainty, the danger inherent in what he said worried him greatly. What had the diagnostician gotten himself into now? The police will come looking for him? Why? House didn't deny using drugs, just that he was in control. That's what he had said while on Vicodin but they both knew it had been a lie. Was he using again? Or was he only talking about the Luvox? Was that why he was running from the police—was he using illicit narcotics now and that's what the cops were after him for? What was he talking about when he said that he had to make things right? Who were 'they' and what wrong had been done that needed correction—_his _correction? Was it possible that nothing was wrong and this was part of a new psychosis? There were so many questions and too few answers!

House had answered one of the most important questions Wilson had, however: he still loved him, and he would be in contact. That _was_ consolation but little enough when he had left his lover with fielding the questions of others who would question where he was and what he was doing. This could cost House his job; possibly even his career and his freedom as well. What was it he was up to?

Taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down, Wilson tried to think. The first thing he should do was to contact Cuddy and Nolan; after that…after that what? Call Blythe…she may have some idea where her son would have gone. Then again, House's mother wasn't in contact with him all that often. It was possible, however, that he might turn to her for help in a pinch. The oncologist wanted to call the police to look for his partner but if House was into something illegal he didn't want to be responsible for the older man's arrest. After that was done he would sit down and try to puzzle through the words House had used to see if he could detect any kind of hidden message to him somewhere in them.

Wilson picked up the phone and began to dial.

* * *

His first stop after leaving the loft had been the bank where he had withdrawn the maximum allowable from his savings account in one day. It was only a couple thousand dollars, but it would be enough for the time being. He would go back to the bank the next day for another withdrawal. He wouldn't be able to use his credit or debit cards because he could be tracked easily with each transaction he made and he wouldn't be able to access his account after tomorrow for the same reason, not that he had all that much saved anyway. He would think of some way to obtain cash when he needed to.

Gregory House not only had to correct the wrong, he had to provide the evidence of the wrong in the first place if he was going to clear his name later and be able to go home to Wilson and hopefully his job. If things went well, he figured he wouldn't have to be gone longer than a month. If things didn't, well, he wasn't certain what would happen with him. He couldn't focus on the 'what ifs', however; he had to concentrate on what was within his control to manage.

At a small motel just outside of Lawrenceville he got a room for the night and holed up in his small, threadbare room, trying to work through his next moves. What had brought him to this? In his own mind he tried to understand the series of events that had led to his decision to act. It all seemed so incredible, even to him.

After Wilson and he had decided to drop the lawsuit against CPS and the State of New Jersey over the fostering of five year old Kenny Baker, he had fallen into what can only be described as a pit of depression. Nothing mattered to him anymore, he was indifferent towards Wilson, his work, himself—everything. All he could do was obsess over Kenny's well-being. Was he being well taken care of? Was he continuing to recover well from his series of surgeries? Were his foster parents doing more than simply providing him with his basic needs? Were they nurturing his mind, body and heart? What was being done for him in terms of treatment for the emotional trauma he had been through? Those were only a few of the worries that had gone through his head in one continuous loop all day and all night. House had seriously begun to question his own sanity again but had said nothing to anyone for fear he would end up locked behind the doors of Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital, powerless to do anything. That was the main reason why he had begun skipping his appointments with his psychiatrist; he knew that Nolan was easily his equal when it came to the ability to read people like books, seeing their hidden motives and feelings and interpreting what it all meant. He couldn't afford having him discover the obsession that had been quickly overwhelming the diagnostician.

House was willing to acknowledge that it had started as an obsession but it became a mission once he had received _the_ _E-mail_.

He had been in his office at the hospital, trying to take a nap at his desk; he had no case to work on, Wilson was busy all day with surgery, appointments and rounds with no time for even lunch with him, and he was exhausted from his chronic insomnia fueled on by his obsessing. No matter how much he had tried he hadn't been able to sleep. Frustrated by that he had decided to check his E-mail for the third time that morning; he had hoped that a new request for a consult had arrived from some remote part of the country that would occupy his mind for more than a minute and a half. There had been no such messages in his inbox but there was one from a user called 'KoalaBear1 at some strange education server site that he had never heard of before. He had been on the verge of sending it to his spam list when the subject line caught his eye. It read: **Hello Dr. H.** His heart had literally skipped a beat. KoalaBear1…K.B…Kenny Baker. He had taught Kenny to call him Dr. H when the boy argued with him that a doctor was a person and not a 'house'.

Immediately he opened the message. It was a very simple note and the boy had had help inputting it into the computer by someone he called his 'Sixth Grade Buddy', likely an older student at his school who was assigned to mentor him. The message read: _"Hello Dr H. How R You. You told me to tell you about bad things so I tell you that Im hungry and sad and I sleep with the mouses. Oh, my six grade buddy says its mices. Do you still read Cat in the Hat to all the boys and girls who are sick? I miss the hopsital and I miss you! Oh, and I miss Dr Wils too. You send me a message now, ok? Bye from Kenny."_

House had read the short message over and over again, having memorized it the second time through. When Kenny was discharged from PPTH the second time the diagnostician had given him a business card and explained to him not to show anyone this card and to hide where he could find it if he needed to. He told the boy to have a grownup who was nice to him, maybe a teacher, to help him call the number on the card or e-mail if he was ever sad or scared and if someone was hurting him. House had had no idea if the child had understood him, but that e-mail was evidence that he had.

The diagnostician had focused on three words: hungry, sad and mices (sic). Hungry could have meant that Kenny was hungry and waiting for lunch or it could have meant that he wasn't being fed properly by his foster parents. "Sad" was self-explanatory and sleeping with mice…well, that sounded _wrong_, whatever had been meant by was possible that the boy had been talking about anything from stuffed toys to a nest of disease-transmitting rodents. However, there was a certain predictability and logic to the way children expressed and organized ideas just as with adults. By juxtaposing 'sad' with 'hungry' and 'mice' House suspected the five-year-old was suggesting something much more sinister than what was on the surface. A burn in his chest began, anger and concern being the coals.

Sending a response to Kenny's e-mail address House had written, _"Hi, Kenny. I am glad you messaged me. Both Dr. Wilson and I are well. We miss you too. I'm not reading bedtime stories anymore. You said that you were sad and that you were hungry and slept with mice. Can you tell me why you are sad? Do you get enough good food to eat and drink where you are living? Are you hungry a lot? What do you mean when you say that you sleep with mice? What kind of mice…are they real or are they pretend? Where do you sleep in your house? Do you have a nice bedroom with a comfortable bed and blankets? Please send me a message as soon as you can but don't tell anybody that we are sending messages until I tell you it's okay because I don't want anyone to get angry at you or punish you, okay? Or you can phone that number on the card I gave you and talk to me or Dr. Wilson. Take care. Dr. H."_

Over the course of the day and evening the diagnostician had checked his e-mail three times but there was no message back from Kenny. He had mentioned to his lover that he had received a message from Kenny but hadn't told him about what the boy had said about his feelings or the hunger and mice. Until he knew whether or not there was anything to be concerned about he hadn't wanted to alarm the younger man, who, simply because of his nature, would have worried. They both didn't need to be doing that.

Two days later House had received an e-mail back from the boy. He had opened it quickly, trying to force back the anxiety he felt over what he might find in the message. It read, _"Hi, Dr H. My buddy says hi too. Her name is Jodie. Shes smart like you. How are you? Im sick, but I still had to go to school. Sometimes I feel really hot and sometimes I feel cold. Do you get sick? I'm sad because Mr. Joe yells at me when I tell him I'm hungry. He says I'm bad and don't need more food but Im still hungry. Jodie is nice. She gives me some of her lunch at lunch time. She told me to tell you I sleep in the basment and I dont like it down there—its scary. Theres noises that are mices moving around when its dark. They are real mices, not toys. Yesterday Mr Joe and Mrs Faye's dog bited me and I don't know why cause I never bugged him. He's a nice dog but yesterday he was really mean!! Maybe cause he was mad because a rakoon bited him. It hurt and there was a little blood too but not bad. Did you ever get bited by a dog, Dr H? I have to stop now because Mrs Grant says times up! Send me a message soon! Bye! From Kenny."_

House had closed his eyes and his fists had been white-knuckled , his fingernails cutting into the palms of his hands. There had been no question left in the diagnostician's mind that Kenny was in yet another bad situation. How was it that some people lived charmed lives and others went through hell over and over again and there was absolutely no fathomable reason for the disparity? The boy had described having fever and chills and feeling sick, which meant he had some kind of infection that was obviously being ignored. It could have been something as simple as the seasonal flu to something as complicated as a systemic viral disease of some kind. Additionally, the dog that had bit him could easily have been carrying a number of dangerous infectious diseases including Rabies; raccoons were notorious carriers of the lethal virus and if one had bit and infected the dog before the dog bit Kenny…it could have been disastrous. If the foster parents had been as negligent as they had sounded from Kenny's few words, the boy could have become symptomatic of Rabies and no one would have known; then again, if Kenny had been infected and reached the stage of presenting symptoms, it would have already been too late to save him. House had felt completely powerless to do anything about it and when he felt powerless he became very angry.

From that point on the diagnostician had continued to check up on Kenny for as long as he could while trying to find out from the child where he lived and what school he went to. It had taken almost three weeks of messaging twice a week to get the information he needed. On the Friday of that week he had driven home with Wilson from the hospital and had entered the loft to hear the phone ringing. Wilson had hurried to answer it; an expression of complete surprise had filled his features. House had moved closer to the phone, intrigued by his lover's reaction to whoever it was on the line.

"Hi, Kenny," Wilson had said, looking up at the diagnostician wide-eyed and shrugging. "How did you know to call this number? Oh, Dr. H gave it to you, I see." Wilson's look of surprise had morphed quickly into one of suspicion which he had directed at his older partner. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

House had been practically breathing down the younger man's neck now, gesturing impatiently for the phone. Wilson had ignored him and continued talking to the five-year-old.

"What's that? Oh, you're calling from where? Jodie's house? Who's Jodie, Kenny?"

At that point the diagnostician's impatience had got the better of him and he had yanked the phone out of his lover's hand, earning the dirtiest of looks which of course he had chosen not to notice.

"Kenny, it's Dr. H. What's wrong?" House had asked, trying to hide his anxiety from the oncologist, knowing that the other hadn't been fooled a bit.

"Dr. H, I don't want to go home!" the little green-eyed, blond-haired boy had sobbed. "Mr. Joe hurted me last night when I was sleeping."

House had cursed beneath his breath before asking, "Kenny, how did Mr. Joe hurt you? Can you tell me what he did to hurt you?"

Kenny's sobs had filled the diagnostician's ears and he was finding it increasingly more difficult by the minute to hide how strongly the call had been disturbing him. Wilson had been the picture of worry standing there beside him, hearing half of the conversation taking place.

"What's going on?" Wilson had whispered to him but the older man had frowned and had put a finger to his lips.

"I'm scared to tell, Dr. H. He told me that he would lock me in the closet with the mices again if I told anyone what he did! He'll do it, Dr. H! I know he will!"

A wave of nausea had swept over House at that point and he had almost vomited where he stood. A plethora of violent and bloody things he wanted to do to 'Mr. Joe' had crossed his mind at that moment, all of which he knew he would never actually do. Damn the CPS and their fucking incompetence!

"Okay, Kenny, okay," House had told him softly, hoping that he sounded soothing to the child. "I promise I won't tell Mr. Joe that you told me, okay?"

What the diagnostician had heard next from Kenny had turned his blood cold and it had been all he could do to continue listening to the nauseatingly corrupt account. He had felt Wilson begin to rub his back soothingly; his lover had been able to look behind his well-practiced impassivity to see the emotional upset he was experiencing. The touch had been a welcome comfort.

"It's going to be okay, Kenny," House had told him, cringing internally at his own lie. "Does Mr. Joe and Mrs. Faye know that you're at Jodie's house?"

"Uh uh," had been the answer. "I have to go home now or Mrs. Faye will be very mad and she'll tell Mr. Joe when he gets home and I'll have to go to bed without supper again! Bye, Dr. H."

"Wait, don't go! Kenny--!" House had stopped short when he heard the phone hang up. He had hung up his phone and then had stood for several moments in silence just staring at the phone. He had taken several deep breaths to try to calm himself and keep himself from tearing the phone from the wall and throwing it across the room

Wisely waiting until his partner had calmed down somewhat, Wilson then had asked the older man what was going on, not dropping the subject when the diagnostician had tried to avoid telling him. With the emotional pain he had been feeling came physical pain from his ruined thigh. He had been tensing every muscle in his body throughout the phone call and while all of the other muscles in his body had relaxed afterwards, his damaged thigh muscle had not. It hadn't been as bad as breakthrough pain but it had been enough to put off Wilson's question until after a healthy dose of Naproxen and soaking in a hot bath had reduced a considerable amount of the agony.

After his bath House had crawled into bed and had wrapped his thigh in the heating pad his lover had brought him. The younger man served him dinner in bed and had reclined beside him to eat as well. House had felt ready enough to tell Wilson about Kenny's e-mail messages and finally what Kenny had told him over the phone. Wilson had reacted just the way House had known he would, worried and nervous. Together they had come to the conclusion that all they could do was notify CPS of what they had discovered and leave it at that. At least, House had allowed Wilson to think that the conclusion had had his approval, but in actual fact House had had no intention of leaving Kenny's fate up to the same morons that had placed him in dangerous situations three time in a row. Wilson had called in the report anonymously as House had requested. If CPS had found out that House had been in communication with Kenny it would have caused harm to everyone involved. House would have been in legal trouble for interfering with the boy and the line of communication between Kenny and him would have been stopped, leaving the two doctors in the dark about what would happen to Kenny next.

The event had shown House that Wilson would not be willing to go along with any plan he concocted to protect Kenny outside of the control of the loser social workers that had created the situation in the first place. He trusted the oncologist with his life, but the diagnostician had come to the conclusion that if he did decide to act on his own he would have to do it without his lover's help.

For weeks House had been able to hide his activities in preparation to righting the wrong CPS had done to Wilson, him and Kenny. Three times he had visited Kenny at the boy's school just after afternoon dismissal and had walked most of the way home with the child and his Sixth Grade Buddy, Jodie. Jodie had confirmed some of the stories Kenny had told the doctor and had promised to do her best to take care of her little friend however she could. House had sworn her to secrecy about his visits and had assured Kenny that it wouldn't be long before he was safe. As he had expected, no action had been taken by CPS based on the report they had received. That had solidified in House's mind the absolute necessity of his intervention. He had promised Kenny back when the child was hospitalized the first time that he would protect him and the diagnostician would be damned if he didn't follow through.

Just before setting out on his 'mission' House had purchased extra painkillers and muscle relaxants, and had obtained antidepressants under the table, so to speak, because he had known it could be quite some time before he would be able to purchase them in a legitimate fashion again. The Luvox Wilson had found stashed in his closet was part of the extra medication he had stocked up on; apparently the oncologist had assumed they were pills that House had been 'cheeking' and then hiding away to conceal the fact that he had stopped taking his meds for whatever reason. House had been a little disappointed that his lover had immediately jumped to that conclusion instead of giving him the benefit of the doubt or just asking him about them. He knew that he had earned a degree of the distrust his lover, friends and colleagues had towards him but since returning from Mayfield he had been working his ass off to prove himself as being trustworthy and he had hoped that at least his best friend would have more faith in him than that.

House was getting hungry and he didn't want to leave the motel again that night to find a restaurant or diner to eat so he dug into the meager food supplies he had brought from the loft to tide him over until morning. As he ate alone watching some lame game show on the tiny TV that came with the room he found himself thinking about his lover, missing him. It hadn't even been a full day away from the oncologist and House chastised himself for being such a needy sap, but he couldn't seem to help himself. He wished he could have involved Wilson but he hadn't been certain that the younger man would have gone along with his plan.

Staring at the telephone on the table next to the bed, the diagnostician contemplated calling the oncologist for no other reason than to reassure him that he still loved him and to be comforted by the oncologist's voice. He decided against it; House wasn't certain he would be able to resist the temptation to give up and go home if Wilson asked him to. He had to stay focused on the task he had to complete. Once he fulfilled his plans then he would call Wilson and tell him what he had done, and only then.

He went to bed early because there was nothing good on TV to distract him and sitting around bored only made his loneliness all that much harder to tolerate. As he lay in the dark he tried to banish all thoughts out of his mind and to relax but it still took him a very long time to fall asleep.

* * *

"He's gone."

Immediately Dr. Darryl Nolan responded in surprise, his voice sounding loud in Wilson's ear.

"Gone? What do you mean? House has left?"

Sighing, the Chief of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital nodded, forgetting that House's psychiatrist couldn't see the gesture over the phone.

"He packed a duffle bag of his stuff while I was at work and left to God knows where on a mission to right the wrongs that had been done."

"What does that even mean, James?" the psychiatrist asked in bewilderment. "Which wrongs are you talking about?"

Wilson rubbed hard at the back of his neck, staring down at his feet. He was beyond frustrated; his conversation with Lisa Cuddy about House's departure hadn't gone very well, not that he had expected it to. The Dean of Medicine had sounded more concerned about what this meant for the hospital and the diagnostics department than she had about the diagnostician's physical and mental well-being. Her tirade over House's continued irresponsibility had worn him out and given him a nasty headache.

"I'm not certain, Darryl," the oncologist admitted, his voice conveying how exhausted and defeated he felt. "He left a cryptic message on the answering machine before he left. He said something about a 'they' having done something that had wronged us and others and that it is up to him to make things right, but he didn't elaborate. He did tell me that he couldn't fill me in on where he was going in case the police were looking for him; apparently this way I don't have to like to the cops when I tell them that I have no idea where he is. He also told me not to worry about drugs because he's got everything under control. What bothers me is that he didn't deny monkeying around with what he's taking and the last time he assured me that he has his drugs under control he was still on Vicodin. He told me he'd contact me when it was safe, whatever the hell that means!"

There was a pause before Nolan asked him, "How did he sound on the recording? What was his speech like? What general impression or vibe did it leave you with?"

Wilson didn't want to admit to him what impression of the diagnostician's mindset he had been left with. It frightened him to even think it; he was afraid that verbalizing his thoughts would somehow make them true.

"Quite frankly," he said in reluctant response, "After I heard it the thought that crossed my mind was that Greg is delusional again, that he's out there tied up in some hallucination-generated fantasy unaware of the fact that he's lost his mind. I feel sick even suggesting it. At the very least he sounds very depressed and very paranoid and I'm afraid that he might do something to hurt himself or even, perhaps, someone else."

"You may not be far from the truth," Nolan told him somberly. "If Greg has stopped taking his psych meds and is possibly using opiates again, the psychosis he suffered from last year may have returned. Let me emphasize, James, there is a _possibility_ that he is delusional. There may be another reason for his behavior that we haven't thought of yet. Until you hear more from him it will be impossible to know for certain."

The oncologist felt nauseous at the idea of his lover out there somewhere all alone in some giant psychotic fantasy that could end up with him getting hurt. He wished he knew where House was so he could go to him and take care of him, whatever the explanation of his behavior was.

"So what do you suggest I do?" he asked the psychiatrist, hoping to receive a realistic, doable answer to the situation.

"For the rest of this evening," Nolan told him calmly, "I suggest you try to relax as much as you are able and to get a good night's sleep—you're going to need it in the days to come. Tomorrow, sit down and try to figure out what wrong he may be trying to right. Think about what has happened over the past few months and see if anything stands out that he could be referring to. Check his normal haunts and do your best to be accessible should he try to contact you. If by tomorrow evening you still haven't heard from him, you may want to consider filing a Missing Person's report with the police. Usually an adult has to be missing for seventy-two hours before law enforcement will act on it but since Greg has a history of drug addiction as well as past issues with his mental health they may start looking for him right away."

"Darryl," Wilson objected to his friend, "I can't betray him to the police, especially since he already thinks that they'll be hunting for him eventually. He'd never trust me again."

"It's difficult to say whether he would or he wouldn't," the psychiatrist insisted, "but if he is delusional and psychotic he could be in serious personal danger or endangering someone else. It's better to make certain that he's safe and worry about his reaction to being reported later than to wait and do nothing and have him turn up sick, injured or worse, don't you think?"

What Nolan said made sense; House's well-being came before other considerations. He would never be able to forgive himself if harm came to his lover because he hadn't acted soon enough.

"Yes," Wilson admitted, feeling his eyes sting with tears again. "Of course, you're right. I just am so afraid. I love him more than anything or anyone else. I just want to find him and convince him to give up whatever it is he's planning on doing and to come home."

"I know," Nolan assured him with compassion. "You need to relax for the rest of the evening and try to get some sleep; chances are wherever Greg may be right now he's probably sleeping and in no immediate danger. Tomorrow you can start taking further action."

"Okay," the oncologist agreed and then sighed. "I'll let you know when I learn something more. Goodnight, Darryl."

"Goodnight, James."

Wilson hung up and then pressed his fists into his closed eyes, rubbing them tiredly. His stress headache felt like it was originating from directly behind his eyes.

He spent a while sitting in the living room with a hot cup of herbal tea listening to some light jazz on satellite radio and focused on clearing his mind of all thoughts concerning House. When that failed abysmally he decided that if he was going to think about his lover anyway, he might as well do something constructive and puzzle over what it was that was wrong that the diagnostician felt compelled to make right. He tried to remember everything that had happened since the end of February which was right about the time House had stopped taking his antidepressants and Wilson had started noticing small changes.

First of all, he and House had begun the romantic side of their relationship which had been an adjustment for both of them at first but everything had seemed to work out fine and as far as Wilson was concerned was the best thing that had happened to either one of them, in spite of the bigotry they had faced for being a same-sex couple in a predominantly heterosexual society. There had been the attacks on the both of them at the hospital, which had caused them more than their fair share of stress, but that too had seemed to resolve itself satisfactorily.

The next thing to impact House's life had to have been Kenny Baker's plight. The entire situation with the young boy, the abuse and neglect he had suffered at the hands of his parents and then their attempt to foster the child had been a huge influence on both the older man and him. Ultimately losing Kenny to another foster family had been a huge blow to House and had sent him reeling for a while but they had worked through it and things looked to be getting better…or had they? Wilson had assumed that everything with his partner and the loss of Kenny had been worked through and accepted. What if he had been wrong about that? What if House had never gotten past the pain of that event and had begun to obsess about it as he was prone to do with things that were really important to him? There had been that incident about three weeks back where Kenny and House had been in communication with each other over e-mail and the five-year-old had reported to the fifty-year old diagnostician that his living conditions left much to be desired—but House and he had contacted CPS about what Kenny had been telling them and the worker they had spoken with had assured them that everything would be done to investigate the allegations and act to protect the little boy should it be necessary to do so.

What if his lover and life partner had decided that he didn't trust CPS to do as they had promised? What if House and Kenny had kept up their communications unbeknownst to the oncologist and Kenny had revealed to him that things in his foster home hadn't improved. What if House, out of his deep concern for Kenny and his powerfully protective nature for the people he cared about, had decided that if CPS wasn't going to protect the boy, _he_ would…?

"Damnit, House!" Wilson said aloud to himself. "Have you gone to protect Kenny? Are you going to take Kenny, and that's why you're concerned about the police hunting you? You _are_, aren't you? And you didn't tell me, not because you wanted to protect me but because…because you figured I would try to stand in your way! My God, that has to be it!"

Wilson set his mug down on a coaster on the coffee table and rose quickly to his feet and went to the study where he sat down in front of the computer and began to try to hack into the diagnostician's e-mail account. If House had continued his communications with Kenny and had planned out a way of rescuing the boy from his sad situation, there would have to be something to indicate it in House's e-mail records.

It took Wilson until the wee hours of the morning to figure out his lover's password but somehow he'd managed and found the information he had hoped he would find therein. Around four o'clock in the morning he crawled into bed, exhausted, to catch a couple of hours of sleep before he had to get up and get ready for work. Knowing now where to start, the oncologist was able to fall asleep almost immediately, hugging House's pillow in his arms, soothing himself with his lover's scent.


	12. Chapter 12 Circumstantial Evidence

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Thank you all for the encouraging reviews! I think this is my favorite fic I'm working on right now but I'm always fearful that I'm going to blow it somewhere along the way here! It's my goal to keep up the quality and characterization if I can! I apologize for how long it has taken me to update lately. My grandma has been very sick and this afternoon she passed away, so this upcoming week is going to be very hectic and I may not have a lot of time to write an update for this or the other two stories I have on the go until the funeral is over next week. I will be back, however (this is where you cheer, not cry. Yes, _you_! You thought I didn't see you but I did! Ha! So there!) with my updates as soon as I can!

Let me know how I'm doing and any ideas you may have to add! Please forgive any errors I may have missed while editing and checking for spelling and/or grammatical errors!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated T** for coarse language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Circumstantial Evidence**

Sleep hadn't come to him easily the night before. Thoughts of what he was doing and what could become of him caused his brilliant mind to cycle mercilessly all night long. It had been like trying to sleep with someone shouting in his ear every second of every minute, all night long. Foremost above all of his thoughts were those that concerned Dr. James Wilson and his relationship with him. It had only been one night away from his lover and best friend but it had seemed like an eternity already, and he was not nearly ready to go home. That is, if he even still had a home to return to. He wished he knew what had gone through the younger man's head when he had listened to the message that the older man had left on the answering machine for him. He hoped that Wilson had paid close attention to the most important part: That he, Dr. Gregory House, loved him more than anyone else he had ever loved before and that would never change.

Not that the diagnostician would blame the oncologist for being hurt and furious for leaving the way he had. He hoped that somewhere inside of him Wilson would understand that he was doing what he _had_ to do; if House didn't then he would never be able to let go of the fear and anger and pain that had plagued his life since his early childhood. The guilt for not acting for the benefit of another one like him would be like a one ton weight on his shoulders to carry around with him wherever he went for the rest of his life.

However, as soon as it was safe for him to tell Wilson where he was and what it was he had done he would make that phone call without hesitation. He wasn't running away from the best thing that had ever happened to him in his life; he was running towards what he hoped would be the redemption of part of his tortured soul.

Breakfast had been two bear claws and an extra large coffee, black and sweet, from a nearby grocery store bakery before he and his bike returned to Princeton long enough to make a second withdrawal from his bank. The temptation to swing by the hospital to try to explain things to his partner had nearly won out over his will, but not quite. Riding out of Princeton again without the man he loved with him had made him feel physically sick.

House came to the conclusion that he had to complete what he had planned as quickly as possible; he wasn't certain he wanted to wait too long to contact Wilson for fear of resentment festering in the younger man and destroying all hope he had of being welcome back home again.

His destination for that day was Atlantic City; Kenny Baker had been placed with neglectful foster parents there. He sneered as he thought about the bitter irony of the situation. Wilson and he had been denied the right to foster Kenny because of the ignorant, bigoted belief that Kenny would be safer in the stability of a 'traditional' (think: heterosexual) home environment rather than one that was homosexual. After all, everybody knew how sick and abusive those 'fags' could be, particularly where the care of a young _boy_ was concerned (wink, _fucking _wink). A home where a guy fucked a woman was much safer for Kenny to grow up 'well-adjusted'. Starving, abusing and neglecting the boy didn't matter so long as Kenny wasn't around 'homos' who would provide for him, perhaps to excess (if he knew Wilson), feed him, hug him, read to him, care for him when he was sick (with two doctors no disease would dare attack the kid!), provide him with fun and educational activities and actually enjoy them with him. The system had certainly made the right decision for five-year-old's best interest this time! Like hell!

"Fucking CPS," House had muttered as he had passed an idiot driver going fifty miles per hour in a sixty-five zone. "Fucking idiots everywhere!"

Once he had arrived at his destination he had found another ubiquitous motel just off the highway to stay for the next couple of nights at least. Cheap, run down dives like the one he'd chosen this time housed individuals who rarely poked their noses into other people's business so long as their privacy was respected as well. The diagnostician had to fly under the radar, so to speak, for the time being.

After settling into his motel room, House went down to the newspaper box just outside the door of the manager's office and purchased a copy of the local rag; on his way back to his room he stopped at a pair of vending machines for a soda, a couple of bags of potato chips and a candy bar—in other words, lunch. Back in the privacy of his room he spread the paper out across a small round dining table and hunted for the classified ads. While the idea of trading his beloved bike for something on four wheels was heartbreaking for him, a car was a lot more practical for what he was planning; in fact, it was essential. He scanned the automotive ads with icy blue eyes that could see details in something in a few seconds that most people wouldn't detect if they had all the time in the world to examine it. Circling a handful of possibilities he then pulled out the cheap disposable cell phone he'd purchased back in Princeton and began calling up the numbers. Finally when he had the deal he wanted he arranged to meet the owner of the car he was after around two in the afternoon, which meant he had to roll.

In the end, House knew that he had gotten the short end of the deal but in dire circumstances certain sacrifices were necessary. Still, the aging Honda Accord he ended up with was a sad replacement for his bike. With a bitter taste in his mouth he had headed directly to his stakeout, not wasting any more time.

The house he was going to be surveilling over the next couple of days belonged to Kenny Baker's foster parents, Joseph and Faye Fromm, in a lower-middle-class neighborhood bordering the 'wrong side of the tracks'. On one of his prior visits with Kenny and Kenny's Sixth Grade Buddy, Jodie, House had followed Kenny's route from school to his house which was about a quarter of a mile away and a block from Jodie's home. He had burned the way into his mind so he could easily find it again when he needed to. He parked the Accord about a block away, finding a spot to sit where he could easily see the Fromm's house, which was on a corner lot, from the side so he could see the comings and goings of that household from both the front and back doors but was unlikely to be noticed by those under the looking glass.

The diagnostician arrived in time to watch for Kenny as he walked home after school. He sat with a pair of binoculars raised to his eyes. When a half-an-hour past his usual arrival time came and went, House frowned with a combination of concern and suspicion. He waited another half-an-hour but still there was no sign of the child, which led him to wonder if the boy had even made it to school that day. If he hadn't that led to the question as to _why_ he hadn't. House wasn't one to immediately jump to the worst-case scenario when something unexpected occurred. That was more in Wilson's purview of their relationship; this wasn't to say that the older man was the optimist, either. He considered himself a realist. He would examine the situation from every angle that he could and then rationally analyze what kind of reaction was warranted. That is, unless it came down to something that came too close to home in which case all bets were off on how he would choose to react and why. Usually he was able to maintain most of his objectivity. _Usually_—but there were times when even he allowed his emotions, more often than not anger or fear or some combination of both, to overrule reason.

He wasn't ready to begin to worry about Kenny based solely on the fact that he hadn't seen the boy walk home from school—yet. There were a number of innocuous explanations for it. He didn't have enough information to start eliminating those which did not apply. There were no comings and goings until four-thirty-five, when he noticed a small figure bobbing down the sidewalk in the distance, heading in his direction. As the figure came closer the diagnostician could make out that it was most likely a young female carrying something. After a few more seconds he realized that the figure was in fact Kenny's buddy Jodie, and she had what looked like a junior-sized backpack slung over her right shoulder. He refocused his binoculars and watched as she walked up the sidewalk to the Fromm's front door and rang the doorbell. After about a minute the door was answered by a woman he would guess was in her late twenties or early thirties with short dirty blonde hair. Without delay Jodie handed the backpack to the woman, likely Faye Fromm, and then turned on her heel half-walking/half-running back down the sidewalk without waiting for a response from the woman. Shaking her head, Faye stepped back into the small bungalow and shut the door.

House watched Jodie's retreating form and debated whether or not to follow the girl and question her about how Kenny was doing. After a moment's hesitation he nodded to himself, started the car and drove around the block, avoiding passing by directly in front of the Fromm's. He met her further up the block and parked the car at the curb. Rolling down his window in order to call to her, he realized how it might look to a casual observer: like one of those perverts in Public Service Announcements trying to abduct a pretty young girl to have his way with her. That thought brought a smirk to his lips but it also made him much more vigilant for anyone who might be watching _him_ at that moment.

"Jodie!" he called out to her when she was close enough to his car that he didn't have to shout and attract unwanted attention. At first the girl started in alarm but once she saw who it was in the car and recognized him, she smiled shyly and approached his door.

"Hi, Dr. H.," she said softly, her pale blue eyes avoiding his vivid blue ones. "Are you looking for Kenny?"

"As a matter of a fact, I am," he told her, doing his best to sound nonthreatening, which was a stretch for him. He found it easier with children than with adults, though. Children—not babies. Babies were an entirely different kind of headache.

"He didn't go to school today," she told him, twirling a strand of hair around an index finger nervously. Give her three or four more years and the same behavior would take on an entirely different meaning. "His foster mom called the school and said he was sick and asked them to send his homework home with me. It's just some printing worksheets for him to do."

House frowned but kept his voice even when he asked, "You're a little late walking home from school, aren't you?"

She nodded, looking down at her feet and then back up at him. "Yes…I get nervous going to Kenny's place. I was kind of avoiding coming with it, so I watched TV at home for a little while first."

Nodding the diagnostician gave her a weak smile; she was a latchkey kid; both of her parents worked fulltime and didn't arrive home until a couple of hours after school dismissal each day. At eleven she fared for herself until then; she had been doing it for several years already. The families that lived in that particular area didn't have money to spare on after-school care or babysitters. There was no one there to greet her when she got home from school to get her busy on her homework or chores; she was babysat by the TV. People did what they had to do to survive, particularly when times weren't great like the current state of the economy and often it was the children who were affected most by it.

"So," the diagnostician said, choosing his words carefully. "What's making Kenny sick—do you know?"

A flush came to the girl's face, a sign of her discomfort with the question. She knew what she had to say wasn't what she knew was wise for her to say but from what House had observed she was a fairly honest person, a pleasant surprise to be certain.

"You know that I like Kenny and I only want to make sure he's okay," he added, trying to assuage her fears.

Jodie nodded and finally looked up at him and met his gaze with her own. "I don't think he's sick," she murmured softly, with obvious concern for her little friend. "I think he probably got…spanked…again. He gets bad spankings, Dr. H.--_really_ bad."

Setting his jaw, House fought back his fierce anger upon hearing that. He wanted to walk into that house through the front door right there and now and pull Kenny out of there, beating the hell out of anyone who tried to stop him. He wanted to—instead he would wait for the right moment to act.

"I know," he told her quietly. The fear in her eyes touched him somewhere in his soul; for one so young she had a compassion that most adults never developed. It was unfortunate, he decided, that as she aged that element of her character would most likely be strangled to death in her by the influence of their crap-hole world until she was just like 'everyone else', including himself.

"Are you still going to help him?"

House didn't hesitate with his answer. "I am. I have to wait until the time is right. Remember it's a secret, okay?" He winked.

Jodie smiled, and he could tell she enjoyed being part of a covert conspiracy, knowing something that not even the adults of her world knew, especially when it meant that Kenny would soon be safe.

"You bet," she told him, winking back. "I gotta get going—my mom will be getting home soon." She began to walk away and then stopped and turned back. "Besides, someone might see me talking to you and think you're some weirdo bothering me. '_Hey, little girl…you want some can-dy?_'" She laughed at her own joke and then went on her way. House chuckled softly, and then drove back to his spot and parked again, planning to spend a few more hours watching the movements and routines of the Fromm's before heading back to the motel for the night.

* * *

The first place Dr. James Wilson went to upon arriving at the hospital the next morning was the Dean of Medicine's office. He knocked on her office door and poked his head in.

"Hey, do you have a moment?" He asked her. Dr. Lisa Cuddy looked up from some paperwork on her desk and sighed.

"Only a moment," she told him. The day had barely begun and already she appeared to be completely stressed out. "I have a meeting with someone from the DEA in ten minutes and I'm still not ready for it."

Wilson stepped into the office and walked up to her desk. "I'm here to tell you that I'm going to use some of that vacation time I've banked up. I've got six weeks, but I don't plan on being away for more than two. I've already talked to Stevenson and he's agreed to take over my patients while I'm gone and Mitchell has agreed to act as Chief of Oncology pro temp. You don't have to worry about the administrative hassle because I've already seen to that. I plan on leaving within the next day or so."

Sitting back in her chair, Cuddy toyed with her pen as she spoke. "You're going to go looking for House, aren't you?"

The oncologist didn't bother trying to deny it. "I have the number of a private investigator from a colleague. I'm going to call him this morning and arrange a time to meet. Once he gets some idea of where Greg may have headed and why then I'll be going to help locate him. I can't just sit here and wait to receive word that he's gotten himself arrested or worse, that he's dead. I'm not as convinced as I was before that he's delusional but I can't be certain of that yet and I can't risk _not_ doing anything and being wrong."

"James," she said to him gently, frowning slightly, "don't you think it would be best if you left it to the police to find him? They know more about this kind of thing than you do. What happens if you do manage to find him and he _is_ delusional…even dangerous? What then?"

"If that happens," Wilson insisted, "I'll deal with what to do _then_—and you should know as well as I do that House isn't a violent person at heart. The few times he has lashed out at other human beings have occurred under _extenuating_ circumstances. I'm not scared of him hurting me."

"House in his right mind isn't violent," Cuddy agreed, "but that's the point—he may not be in his right mind. These might be _extremely_ extenuating circumstances."

"I'll deal with it," he said again, growing frustrated. She had so little faith in the diagnostician. He knew that he too easily jumped to conclusions when it came to his lover's behavior, but he was at least trying to change that, trying to put a little more faith and trust in the man. Wilson recalled something he had read in a psychiatric journal once—people tended to live up to the expectations those significant to them had for them. If he continued to expect House to screw up and act irresponsibly then chances are he would; after all, why try to excel when no one will believe it or acknowledge it?

Cuddy shook her head in dismay and Wilson knew she was thinking that he was making a foolish decision based solely on his love for the diagnostician rather than on logic. He believed that it was the other way around. _She_ was assuming that House was going to be nothing but trouble based on the past hurt feelings that had been engendered between her and him and his history of behavior pre-Mayfield. It appeared that she still refused to acknowledge the fact that House's behavior around the hospital had been different since he'd gone through detox and therapy. While the man was far from being the perfect employee, he had given her no real reason to worry and in fact had been working harder at being more responsible and cooperative in order to earn some credibility again. The oncologist proceeded to tell her just that.

When it was apparent that the Dean of Medicine was still highly skeptical Wilson decided to quit wasting his time. For a moment there he had to wonder just exactly _what _it was about Lisa Cuddy—aside from the obvious physical attributes she possessed—that had attracted House to her in the first place. Perhaps all it had been was sheer lust that had motivated him—that and the fact that Wilson himself, thinking he was acting to bring joy to his best friend's life, had practically pushed House in her direction every opportunity he had. He rued that behavior and was very thankful that Cuddy had become involved with Lucas when she did; he had hated her little pissant boyfriend and his psychotic attacks on his lover. However that relationship had given both House and him time to think and realize that the older doctor and he belonged together instead. They both had realized that the reason their past relationships had gone as badly as they had was because their true love and Soulmate was each other.

"Very well," Cuddy said with a heavy, almost put-upon sigh, "do what you have to do. Just get the both of you back here as soon as possible. I need my department heads taking care of their departments and not allowing their private lives to interfere with their jobs!"

Feeling anger rise up within him over her condescending attitude and continued lack of concern and respect for House after all that he had done to help her through her break up with Lucas Douglas and all of the hoops he had been jumping through since he came back to work last fall, Wilson wanted nothing more than to tear into her up one side and down the other but he restrained himself. She wasn't worth the rise in blood pressure it would cause him. For months he had allowed himself to believe that it had been Lucas' influence on her that had caused the estrangement between House and him, and her, but now he realized he had been giving Lucas too much credit. It was sad. Just when he thought their 'cold war' had come to an end, she had to behave like that and renew hostilities again.

Knowing that he would end up sticking his foot in his mouth if he dared to open it, Wilson said nothing in response, turned on his heel and marched out of her office without looking back. He fleetingly wondered if she wasn't going through menopause; it would certainly explain the polar shifts in her mood and behavior she had been exhibiting.

He headed to his office where he took off his overcoat and hung it up and set his briefcase on top of his desk. Sitting down behind it he opened the case and pulled out the card for the private detective his colleague had given him when he was in the process of divorcing his third wife. Wilson hadn't bothered using one at that time but had kept the card in his rolodex at home anyway. Now he was glad he had.

He called the number of Mr. Walt Bujold but only got his Voicemail. Leaving a brief message Wilson then leaned back in his executive chair and rubbed his eyes with his fists; it wasn't even nine o' clock in the morning and he already felt one doozy of a stress headache coming on.

He had three appointments first thing one right after the other and then rounds with a scary bunch of interns in their oncology rotation. Lunch after that would be lonely, and only remind him of House, which would only depress and worry him again. The oncologist decided that he probably wouldn't take lunch that day; he didn't have much of an appetite when he was upset anyway. After that he had the afternoon 'free' which meant he'd probably go down and complete his Clinic time for the week; he only had two and a half hours left to serve. After that, there was a huge pile of backed-up paperwork he had to go through that could possibly take him until after the dinner hour to complete which was fine by him. At the hospital he could focus on work and patients and keep his mind reasonably distracted but if he went home to the loft he would be faced with the fact that his lover was not there to talk to, to watch TV with, to cuddle in bed with (House frequently complained about being in love with a 'cuddler' but the truth of the matter was the diagnostician actually loved it, but wouldn't admit it for the world for fear of appearing 'soft' or whipped) and to make love with. The loneliness would drive him crazy.

With that in mind he pulled out a patient file from his briefcase and prepared for his first appointment.

* * *

He had taken a half-hour off from his surveillance of the Fromm home to do a McDonald's run for dinner. He wondered how long it would take for him to get sick of fatty fast food while on this little mission of his. House knew that Wilson would have a conniption or five if he knew how unhealthy his lover was eating when not being practically force-fed with food that was heart-healthy--low in sodium, high in fiber and low in deliciousness. The oncologist just didn't understand that House was malnourished as far as the cheeseburger and French fry food groups went. Thank goodness Wilson considered pizza to be nutritious 'in moderation' (so long as it was prepared with low-fat cheese and a multigrain crust) or else the diagnostician would have had to declare a civil war. He had taken the fast food to go and had returned to his surveillance spot.

Very little happened around the house until Joe came home from work a little after six-thirty; the man appeared to be an electrician based on some of the tools House had seen him sorting through in the back of the truck he drove. The man pulled two twelve-pack cartons of beer out of the box and headed towards the house as Kenny appeared for the first time since House had been watching them. The five-year-old looked wan and thinner than he had the last time House had seen him; he had already been underweight due to the neglect he suffered first by his mother and then by his father as well as the two major surgeries he had undergone. Now he appeared frail and sickly again and it pained House's heart to see him that way. While the diagnostician had suffered physical and verbal abuse at the hands of his father, he had rarely gone without good food to eat and his basic needs met. The only times he had were when he had been sent to his room without dinner for some infraction of the law of Lt. John House, like the times when he had refused to eat what he had been served and had been stubborn enough to be sent from the table to await his discipline when his dad was finished with his dinner. From what Kenny had told him, he frequently went without proper meals or eating anything at all.

_Soon_, House reminded himself as the urge to grab the boy and flee washed over him. _Just a little longer._

The boy dragged behind him a large green garbage bag towards the curb, likely for an early morning pick up. The bag appeared to be far too heavy for him to be handling and he had to strain to get it to its destination. Just before Joe and Kenny passed each other the garbage bag snagged something on the ground and suffered a small tear that left a trail of garbage behind him as he continued forward unaware. Joe noticed, though, and after setting one of the beer cases down he immediately grabbed Kenny by a bony arm and spun him around roughly. He got in the boy's face and began to scream at him loudly enough for House to be able to make out what he said. The tirade was filled with expletives and insults with a few frightening threats thrown in for effect. Kenny began to cry and Joe began to shake him hard, screaming at him to shut up before the neighbors started complaining. Faye appeared at the screen door and start yelling at Joe for causing a scene. He then let go of Kenny, telling the boy to clean up the mess after he got the bag to the curb.

Joe picked up the beer case again and went into the house coming out again right away and heading to his truck where he pulled another case of beer and two cases of what appeared to be vodka coolers out of the box and took them in. Joe made two more trips for more booze, passing Kenny as the boy struggled with the bag. It was nearly dark but Kenny was outside alone for another twenty minutes cleaning up the garbage before being allowed back into the house. The diagnostician noticed a distinct limp as Kenny walked; he was favoring his left leg and the trouble appeared to be with the foot. He was dragging it with every step.

House lowered his binoculars as a car drove by him. He rubbed his azure blues tiredly. Knots ached in his stomach as different knots were forming in his right thigh--causing him more and more pain the longer he remained cramped behind the steering wheel of the Accord. He began to massage the tightening muscle in an effort to work through the knots and lessen the pain. Gritting his teeth through the process and groaning softly several times as the pain spiked dangerously high he knew that he had to do something soon to relax the muscles or he could be in a great deal of trouble. If he ended up experiencing breakthrough level pain his health could be severely endangered.

With that thought in mind, the diagnostician was about to call it a night and head back to his motel room while he still could when he noticed that cars were beginning to arrive, parking along the street in front of the Fromms' house. When there were no longer any free spaces they actually began to park on the front lawn of the yard. He counted as the newcomers entered the abode and within the space of a half an hour thirty-five people had arrived for what was obviously going to be a raucous party by the looks and sounds of it. Dance music interspersed with metal and R&B overflowed the building along with people carrying liquor and beer bottles and dancing between the cars.

House raised his binoculars to his eyes again and looked among the numerous faces that went in and came out of the bungalow. His eye was drawn to the figure of a small woman with bleached-blonde hair wearing the skimpiest dress he had seen outside of a strip club, shaking what she had as hard as she could; instead of finding her gyrations arousing they actually caused his stomach to turn. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise; the diagnostician had the feeling that something was very wrong with that one particular person and he silently urged her to turn around so he could catch a glimpse of her face. When she finally did turn to face his direction his suspicion was confirmed, turning his blood cold in his veins. Standing talking to Faye Fromm with her breasts nearly overflowing from the top of her dress was none other than Eva Baker.

"Mommy's come to party, I see," House growled softly, scowling in fury. He held the binoculars with white-knuckled hands and his entire body literally trembled with his barely restrained wrath. It had to be one fucking major coincidence for that tramp to just happen to show up at the house of the people who were fostering her son.

House realized the significance of this finding. The only way this realistically could have happened was if someone with the power and authority to control the placement of Kenny was influenced somehow to ensure that Kenny was placed with foster parents who just happened to know his abusive mother from whom he was taken. He knew that Eva Baker didn't have the kind of money it would have taken to bribe a CPS official so someone else was involved as well. The important thing was that a fraud had been carried out right under his nose and he had missed it. Angry at himself for not being more observant, more on the ball, he decided to push self-recrimination aside for the time being; this was actually wonderful news! If he could prove that Eva was in fact acquainted with the Fromms prior to arriving at the party and this wasn't some kind of fluke, he could make such a stink about it that Kenny would be removed from the horrible situation he was in legally and with a little bit of insistence and the help of their lawyer Wilson and he could still end up with Kenny yet. _Proof._ He needed proof.

His leg was absolutely screaming like a bitch at him and he had to get back to the motel. He sighed and decided to risk it. Pulling out from the glove box the cheap digital camera he had bought that morning House then started the car and drove closer towards the Fromms' house, keeping his eye on the blonde ho as he did. He stopped at the Fromms' corner at the stop sign, turned on the camera and trained it on Eva Baker using the zoom magnification to get as close up a picture as he could; he put the camera on the low-light setting. Acting quickly before anyone noticed him and what he was doing he snapped a full-on shot of her face and then dropped the camera on the seat and drove away from the stop sign quickly in the direction away from the party.

Hopefully no one had paid any attention to him and Eva had not seen who the driver of the car was that turned the corner at the very moment she turned towards it.

He headed straight back to the motel and by the time he got there his leg was cramping and aching so badly that he didn't know if he was going to be able to get out of the car and make it to his room. House grabbed his cane from where it had been rested against the passenger side seat; he opened the car door, leaned his cane against it and swung his left leg out of the car. The pain was already causing his heart to beat dangerously fast. He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath and then with both hands he very slowly and carefully lifted his weakened right leg and began to swing it towards the door. The pain was nearly intolerable and he had to stop twice to rest before the leg was even out the door. His breathing was rapid and shallow and House took a moment to force him to breath slower and deeper. It was very difficult to accomplish but after a minute he felt that he was out of danger of hyperventilating and felt up to trying again. He lifted his leg again and felt a jolt of excruciating pain course up the nerves into his hips, pelvis and back. Groaning he kept going, determined not to allow his crippled limb to keep him from completing what he had come to do. After one last 'push' he managed to clear the door well without snagging his foot on it and carefully set the leg down. Sweat was steaming down his face now and he wasn't able to settle his own breathing.

He wanted Vicodin, lots of it and on the double! On a scale of one to ten with ten being the highest level of pain, he was definitely at a twelve. He knew there was no way his non-opiod painkillers were going to be able to even touch the kind of agony he was in now. Memories of the terror he had felt when he had begun to hallucinate a year before and soon had lost himself into a fantasy world returned to him. House had no doubt that if he began to use Vicodin again he would also lose his mind at the same time. Along with that he remembered about his experience while he detoxed those first few days he spent at Mayfield; that had been the worst physical experience, aside from the infarction, that he had ever had in his life. Yet, at that moment with the agony causing his heart to beat dangerously fast for a man his age his desire to ease that pain was overwhelming and if he had access to those pretty white pills he would take them in a heartbeat.

I've got to get to my room, he thought desperately. The prospect of trying to get himself completely out of the car and across the parking lot was something he feared but knew he had to do. However he didn't have the courage left. The diagnostician had tears of anger, defeat and pain in his eyes and he blinked vainly to keep them back; they began to stream down his face unabated. He realized that he was going to fail Kenny again and the bitterness of it was almost more than he could handle. He needed help and he needed it now.

Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket he hesitated a moment or two before punching in the numbers and waiting for the answer.

* * *

It was after nine when Wilson finally made it home. He was thoroughly exhausted in every way and he didn't even have the energy to go to the kitchen to grab him something to eat; he was barely able to hang up his coat. He headed directly to the bedroom where he slipped off his shoes, took off his suit jacket and tie and unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt. He simply dropped everything to the floor, too tired to even properly put everything away. He then collapsed on his bed and within minutes was asleep on top of the covers.

Twenty minutes after that the phone rang and Wilson opened his eyes, looking at the offending device for a moment, considering of allowing the answering machine to pick up. That didn't last long; after the third ring the oncologist reached for the cordless phone on his bedside table and answered.

"Hello?" he said sleepily and then yawned audibly.

"_James_?"

Wilson sat up in bed so quickly that a wave of lightheadedness hit him.

"Greg!" he said quickly, a mixture of relief and concern in his voice. There had been a thick coat of pain on the simple word House had said. "Oh God! I've been so worried about you! Are you okay?"

The oncologist could hear his lover hyperventilate lightly; he knew he was in danger.

"No," House managed between breaths, "I'm not." That was a huge admission for him to make.

"Your leg?" Wilson asked, but it sounded more like a statement than a question.

"Yeah," he said simply and then let out a small groan that struck panic in the younger man's heart.

"Greg, I know you don't want to involve me in what you're doing," the oncologist told him, trying to remain calm for his partner's sake, "but I need you to allow me to help you. Where are you?"

There was a pregnant pause before the panting diagnostician told him, "Atlantic City--the Sleepy Traveler Motel. _Shit_!"

_Atlantic City_? Wilson thought to himself, shaking his head in confusion.

"Okay…what have you done so far for the pain?"

"I can't even…get out of…the fucking car!" House responded harshly. Wilson didn't take it personally; he knew that his abrasiveness was caused by the pain and the embarrassment of having to ask for help. It struck the younger man that he had said car, not 'motorcycle' or 'bike'. He allowed that thought to pass, focusing on the immediate needs of his lover.

"What's your pulse rate?" the oncologist asked next, knowing full well that the older man would have already been monitoring it closely.

"Too fast," was the answer. House knew that would not be a satisfactory answer as far as Wilson was concern so then added, "one-thirty-six."

Wilson closed his eyes involuntarily. That was too fast alright! "Greg, I know you're going to object to this, but I'm going to call an ambulance for you. You need to get to a hospital right away!"

"Fuck no!" his partner responded predictably. "I'm not…going to the hospital! I shouldn't have…called."

"Damn it, Greg!" Wilson exclaimed, his own nerves pushed to the limit. "_Of course_ you should have! You're in trouble and I love you! Don't push me away again—you called me because I'm assuming you have a certain amount of trust in me so trust my judgment now! I'm calling for the ambulance. Can you provide me with an address?"

Grudgingly House gave it to him and the younger man committed it to memory.

"Okay," The oncologist told him. "I'm going to call the ambulance and then I'm coming immediately. Don't even try to object because I'm not listening to it if you do. Call my cell if you need anything. I love you, Greg. It's going to be okay."

"Whatever," was all the diagnostician said in reply before ending the conversation from his end. He immediately called Information for the number to the ambulance dispatch in Atlantic City, New Jersey. He was patched through and made the emergency report. Once he was certain that an ambulance had been dispatched he grabbed his overnight bag out of his closet and began to pack as quickly as he could. He made a couple of last minute calls to the hospital to finalize the arrangements he had made and wondered if he shouldn't also call Cuddy. It was an easy decision for him to make. She had already made it clear just how little she cared about House over the months since his return from rehab so he didn't bother with disturbing her at home with this news.

Once everything was in order he left the apartment with his luggage and headed for his Volvo. In minutes he was on the road. Once he was on the highway he opened her up and sped faster than he ever had before, hoping that House would be able to last until help arrived and wouldn't be too angry at his lover for sending him help.

"Hold on, Greg, I'm on my way," Wilson thought out loud, "and please don't piss of the paramedics!"


	13. Chapter 13 Crime of Passion

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: I apologize in advance for the length of this chapter, but when you're writing smut you want to take your time! XD That's right, man on man smut, so if you have a problem with that kind of thing, feel free to skip this chapter and wait for the next! I proofread this myself which means I probably left a lot of mistakes uncorrected—sorry!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated T** for coarse language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: Crime of Passion**

Throwing the cell phone down to the floor of the car, Gregory House sat with his legs sticking out the driver's side door of the Accord, unable to move any further because of the breakthrough pain he was experiencing. On a scale of one to ten the pain was definitely an eleven, pushing twelve. He had fallen back onto the hard console between the front bucket seats, having spent all of the energy he had left on making the phone call to Wilson and remaining relatively lucid during their brief conversation. His body and his clothing were drenched in sweat; his hair was plastered to his head with it. He could feel his heart beating dangerously fast in his chest and it was getting increasingly difficult to breathe quickly enough to meet the demands his pain was making on his body. It was all he could do to keep himself conscious. The agony he felt was blinding, mind-numbing and he wasn't even certain at one point whether or not he was awake or having a nightmare of epic proportions.

He hadn't wanted to call Wilson for help; now the oncologist knew where he was and was racing to his side to rescue him and try to convince him to give up his foolish plans and come home. Worse than that, however, was the worry he knew Wilson would feel the entire drive. He regretted causing his lover that kind of distress. House was also concerned that in his haste to reach his side the oncologist would drive carelessly and would get hurt. The diagnostician always took risks on the road…and had been in more than his share of accidents and ERs as a consequence. He cared more about Wilson than for himself and didn't want to see that happen to him.

Breathing quickly and shallowly through his mouth was causing his mouth and throat to dry up and he began to gag from it. An extra horrible shot of pain ran up his thigh into his hip and he groaned loudly and involuntarily then gasped a couple of times. He knew he couldn't last much longer without relief. His heart rate had only increased since he had hung up on Wilson and he knew that he was in risk of a serious arrhythmia occurring, perhaps even v-fib, which could easily end-up in his heart stopping completely. Tears ran down his face unnoticed. In the back of his mind he could hear someone moaning pathetically and it took him a few minutes to realize that those moans were coming from him.

House didn't notice the curious passerby who walked up to the Accord and stared down at the man inside with a mixture of horror and mistrust.

"Hey," the stranger said loudly at the diagnostician. If he had been able to, House would have acknowledged the fellow's presence but it was all he could do to focus on breathing; there was no way he could even think the words much less vocalize them. He was able to groan out however.

The passerby yelled a little louder at House, probably thinking that he hadn't heard him or was drunk and passed out. House only wished his was dead drunk; the alcohol would anesthetize the pain somewhat. Still not getting a response from the diagnostician, the man kicked one of House's legs to grab his attention; unfortunately, it was the right leg he kicked and the jolt caused an agony in him that was more than his body and mind could tolerate. House let out a bloodcurdling scream that rivaled some of the ones he had let out while going through detox at Mayfield. Blackness soon came over House mercifully, like a death shroud.

He came to an indeterminate amount of time later. He was in a state of twilight consciousness, vaguely aware of harried voices surrounding him and the sensation of movement. There was pain, but it seemed to be covered and muted by a blanket of black. He could feel something repetitively pressing crushingly against his sternum and then a wind that seemed to blast into his lungs against his will. He blacked out again.

When he woke again it was very slowly, one of his five senses at a time. The sensation of pain reappeared but it was by no means as intense as he last remembered it to be. The area around him was filled with the sounds of soft beeping, a whooshing sound, small clicks and clacks that were eerily familiar somehow but he couldn't quite put a finger on it yet. There was a pressure on his left hand and gradually he came to realize that someone was holding his hand and squeezing it lightly from time to time. Finally he felt something that was stuck up his nostrils and quickly recognized it as respiratory cannula feeding him oxygen.

House opened his eyes slowly to avoid blinding himself with the sudden onslaught of light into them. He was pleasantly surprised by the fact that the illumination in the room was muted, easing the adjustment his eyes had to make. He recognized an IC room when he saw one. He was hooked up to an IV but couldn't make out exactly what all he was being fed, although he knew that one of the two bags hanging on the pole had to be saline. He couldn't see the monitors measuring his vitals from the angle he was at. Glancing slightly to his left he saw James Wilson sitting next to him attentively. The oncologist looked tired but otherwise in good shape. As soon as he noticed House's crystalline blue eyes looking up at him the younger man met them with his chocolate brown ones and smiled warmly and in relief. House couldn't believe how good it felt to see his face again and feel his gentle touch. The love he saw in Wilson's eyes meant more than a hundred verbal 'I love yous' ever could.

The younger man raised his hand to House's cheek and cupped it tenderly.

"Good morning, Sunshine," he murmured to the diagnostician. "It's about time you woke up."

House gave his lover his characteristic smirk. "Don't ever call me Sunshine again, _Snookums_," he said, feigning indignity, earning a chuckle in response.

"Sunshine is a hell of a lot more dignified than Snookums," Wilson told him, raising a bushy brown eyebrow. "Is Baby-doll better?"

"Just barely," the diagnostician answered straight-faced, causing his partner to chuckle again. "How long was I out?" he asked.

Wilson checked his watch and quickly calculated the answer in his head, "Just shy of fourteen hours. Apparently the paramedics arrived to find a woman and a man performing CPR on you because you went into cardiac arrest." The younger man didn't quite finish his sentence without his voice breaking and he blinked back tears.

"Oh God," House moaned, closing his eyes briefly. "Please tell me that whoever was breathing for me was good-looking."

"I don't know if she was or not. I heard she was the motel manager's daughter," Wilson told him, shrugging.

"She's not bad for jail-bait," the older man commented with a half-shrug and a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Wilson grinned and then sobered quickly before asking softly, "How's the pain now?"

"Better," House told him with a nod. "About a two currently. What did they give me for it?"

The huge grin that crossed his lover's face peaked the older man's curiosity.

"You're going to love this," the oncologist told him. "The pain management team here is running trials on a derivative of ABT-594." 1

"Seriously?" House exclaimed in surprise. "I never saw anything in the literature about that!"

"Neither did I," Wilson told him. "They 'unofficially' have you on that as well as parecetamol. Apparently you're not the only doctor in New Jersey who believes that rules are meant to be broken when necessary. You're too late to become part of the trial this time around but if all goes as well as it seems to be right now, they'll consider you for the next round. Once everything is stable you have to go back on the analgesics alone for now."

"Damn!" House muttered at news that he would have to wait to try out long-term the experimental non-opiate painkiller that had the potential of making morphine passé someday. The toxin produced on the skin on certain tropical tree frogs, the same neurotoxic substance used by primitive cultures for poison darts, contained a substance called epidatidine from which drugs like ABT-594 were being derived in the hunt for non-addictive painkillers on the level of the effectiveness of morphine, or possibly even greater. Since House was fascinated by anything experimental and radical, the idea of being part of a trial for a drug that could relieve his pain as effectively as Vicodin without the fear of addiction was exciting for him. It gave him some hope for a future solution to his chronic pain dilemma. He was cautious, however, to not get his hopes up too high. Nothing was certain in life and especially not in medicine.

Wilson grew pensive, his eyes downcast. House saw this, feeling guilty for the obvious pain he had caused him. He knew it was taking the younger man a great deal of effort not to verbally assault him for what he had done.

Sighing, the older man said to him, carefully guarding his voice from displaying any emotion, "I'm…sorry…for not telling you about my plans and just taking off. I couldn't risk having you talk me out of what I'm doing."

Frowning, his partner lowered his voice and demanded, "What _are_ you doing? Obviously it's illegal or you wouldn't have been concerned about the police questioning me about your whereabouts!" He was referring back to the message House had left him on the answering machine back home. "Does this have something to do with Kenny?"

House averted his eyes. "He's in a great deal of danger."

"How do you know that? His e-mails? We dealt with that."

"We made a _phone call_ and left it up to the _incompetents_ at CPS to deal with it! I…I've remained in contact with him since then," the diagnostician admitted. "He told me what city he lived in and which school he attended as well as the names of his foster parents. Finding him was simplistic. I visited him a couple of times and I saw with my own eyes the continued abuse he's suffering. CPS did absolutely _nothing_. In fact I have reason to believe that they've been involved in subterfuge involving Kenny."

Looking at House like he had lost his mind, Wilson shook his head in dismay. "You've been _stalking _that child and his foster family? When have you been doing this and how is it I haven't seen it happening all this time?"

House sighed, frowning from irritation. "A ton of bald kids have been crashing and dying lately. You've been sitting at their bedsides for hours on end or have been so preoccupied by it I could have had gender reassignment surgery and you wouldn't have noticed."

Wilson's eyes softened, as did the expression on his face. "I didn't realize I'd been neglecting you."

"You weren't neglecting me!" House asserted, rolling his eyes. "I'm not some codependent housewife in a flannel nightgown sitting around brooding that my husband the doctor is at the hospital with his patients instead sitting around at home being nagged by me. When _I_ have a case I obsess over it until it's solved and everything else takes the back-burner, too. Don't start worrying about it."

"It _is_ important," Wilson told him seriously. "The problems in my failed marriages always started with me putting everything ahead of my wives and taking them for granted and then blaming them for complaining. From there came emotional distancing, sex becoming rare or non-existent. I became resentful and found the nearest vagina to fuck. I can't allow myself to screw up like that again."

House sighed. "James, I don't feel neglected or abandoned. If I want your attention I just storm into your office and take it. Hell, you're in hospital recovering from internal injuries and I can get you to suck the hell out of me—at which, by the way, you are a master."

The oncologist had to smile at that, albeit ruefully.

"Can we get back to Kenny now?" the older man asked, exasperated. "The names of his foster parents are Joseph and Faye Fromm. I was watching their house last night and saw Kenny. He's looking like a skeleton. It was all I could do not to march right up to that yard, grab him and take him with me."

Squeezing House's hand Wilson asked, "You love that little boy, don't you?"

"Oh _god_," House moaned, rolling his eyes again, "you're not going to go mushy on me, are you? I'll puke, I promise you!"

"You don't have to admit it, Greg," Wilson said with a knowing smile. "I know you do!"

House glowered at him, but internally he had to admit that his lover was right. He didn't quite understand what had gotten into him when it came to the green-eyed imp but all he wanted was for the boy to be safe in the care of the oncologist and himself.

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

"Go on," the younger man told him, but his mouth was still smiling smugly as he listened to the older man's story. "I'm listening."

Exhaling loudly, the older man continued. "They held a party last night. Booze, drugs, everything I miss. One of the guests was Eva Baker."

Wilson was stunned by that revelation. He was speechless, and shook his head almost imperceptibly. His grip on his partner's hand tightened until it was almost painful for House.

"Tell me that's a coincidence, Greg!"

"What the fuck do you think?" House retorted angrily. His fury wasn't for Wilson's question but rather for the bitch that tortured her own son, was never to have contact with him again, but had.

"You think CPS placed Kenny with the Fromms knowing that they were associated with his mother?" the oncologist inquired, trying to comprehend how such a grievous error could have been made. "It's possible Baker was party crasher or came with someone who knows the Fromms but she herself has no connection with them."

"The bitch was talking with Faye Fromm like they've known each other for years," the diagnostician argued. "It's no coincidence. The only way the Fromms could have possibly qualified to foster Kenny was by CPS collusion."

"But why?" Wilson demanded. "What could they possibly benefit by being willing to do that?"

House shook his head. That he didn't know the answer to that but he had to find out if he was going to get Kenny out of that home without committing a felony to do so. He needed more time and needed his partner to understand and support him in this.

"I can't quit until I find that out," House told him intensely, blue eyes staring into brown. "I need you to understand that and not try to stop me."

Not responding to that immediately there were a couple of minutes of silence during which he could see the oncologist battling with himself over what to do next. House knew that the protector and helper in Wilson was waging war with the responsible, rule-abiding doormat. The diagnostician forced himself to remain calm and silent as he waited for his lover's reply.

Wilson met House's eyes and then nodded and set his jaw determinedly. "_We're_ staying and getting to the bottom of this. You can't sit all-day cramped up in a car with your leg or we'll have another incident like this and I've taken at least a week's leave of absence from the hospital and I can arrange for more if I need to. I have the name of a private investigator that hasn't slept with Cuddy that I was going to call to help me find you. He may be able to gain access to information we can't. Oh, and I went to that sleazy motel you were staying at, paid the bill and got your stuff. You don't have to lay low anymore so we can get a room somewhere that actually changes the sheets between guests and doesn't rent by the hour. I'll do most of the surveillance while you work with the P.I. and you're going to eat better than greasy burgers and candy bars."

The diagnostician allowed a grin to fill his face. That was exactly what he was hoping the younger man would decide to do. He was so relieved that he was willing to tolerate Wilson's mothering—this time.

"I love you, James," he said softly.

With a smirk, the younger man nodded. "You better."

* * *

By late afternoon House was released from the hospital, against medical advice, but Wilson assured the attending in charge of the diagnostician's case that he was a physician and would careful watch over the pain in the ass patient. His leg still unable to withstand any weight put onto it, House left the hospital under his own power using a pair of crutches instead of his cane. The trial painkiller worked so well for him that he dreaded having to go back to ibuprofen.

Wilson helped his lover get into his Volvo before taking the driver's seat. They headed to one of the better waterfront hotels in Atlantic City and got a room with a Jacuzzi bath tub for House. After helping the older man into the tub of hot water and turning on the jets, he left him to soak his bad leg and went to make phone calls, one of which was to the P.I. he had left a message for the day before. The phone rang twice before it was answered.

"This is Bujold," a deep, almost growly voice said into Wilson's ear via the phone. "What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Bujold," Wilson began, sitting on the edge of the king-size bed, "My Name is Dr. James Wilson. A mutual friend, Dr. Bill McCaan, gave me your card should I ever be in need of your services. I called yesterday morning and left a voice message?"

"Yes, Doctor," the P.I. said quickly, "my apologies for not returning your call. I was away for all of yesterday and half of today on business. How can I be of service to you?"

Wilson was impressed by the first impression he had of the man. He seemed to be polite and professional. His only experience before this with private investigators was with Lucas Douglas and that situation had left him with a bad taste in his mouth and the impression that all P.I.s were truly 'dicks'.

Briefly the oncologist related House's and his situation with Kenny and the fact that they wanted to be able to find out if CPS was involved in shady dealings and to acquire proof that the Fromms knew Eva Baker before the party, were abusing Kenny and allowing the boy's mother illegal access to him. He also explained their reticence to address this matter through traditional channels because the possibility that they would get the run around like they had when they had been trying to become Kenny's foster parents.

"I understand," Bujold told him. "Unfortunately you're not the first to call me to investigate matters of this nature. I'd be happy to meet with you and Dr. House to discuss the matter further. I have an appointment with another client in Hammonton at eight this evening but I could meet with you tomorrow morning at say, nine in the morning?"

"That would be great," Wilson told him, relieved that they could meet with him so soon. He knew it would be difficult to convince House to relax and take it easy on his leg for the remainder of the day so the sooner they could get moving on this the better. He and the P.I. made arrangements to meet for a breakfast meeting in the hotel restaurant at nine. They briefly discussed his fees and then ended their conversation. The oncologist hung up, feeling much more at ease.

From the bathroom he could hear his lover singing but the oncologist couldn't make out just which song it was. He smiled at the sound of the rich baritone of House's voice. Usually House only sang around him when he was trying to be an annoyance to him but occasionally Wilson would catch him genuinely singing something when the diagnostician didn't think his partner was listening. Wilson loved the sound of his voice. He found himself being distracted by it and forced himself back to the task at hand.

His next call was to Lisa Cuddy. While the woman wasn't on his favorites list lately he still felt obligated to call her and let her know that House was okay but neither of them would be returning to the hospital right away. He called her on her cell and caught her in her car on her way home from work. He told her what he had intended but she wasn't prepared to let him end the conversation so quickly.

"Where are you?" she demanded; the harshness that had been in her voice the last time he spoke with her was gone. Now she sounded tired and concerned. "You said he was okay. Does that mean he hasn't relapsed and he's in his right mind?"

Not knowing what to make of the Dean of Medicine's attitude shifts the oncologist told himself to give her the benefit of the doubt for the time being. "I can't tell you where we are yet," he told her cautiously, "but I can tell you that he's sober and in his right mind—well, as much as Greg has ever been in his right mind."

Wilson could hear the wry amusement in his boss' voice. "Gotcha. I'm glad to hear it. Could I possibly speak to him?"

"He's in the tub soaking his leg," the oncologist told her, not really wanting her to speak to the diagnostician. Her unpredictability made him uneasy; he didn't want her to say anything to his lover that might upset him in the state of mind he was currently in. "It's been giving him trouble and I'm hoping the hot water will help him."

"Oh," she responded, sounding disappointed. "Okay. Please tell him that I asked about him. I don't know what you two are up to but knowing House it probably involves danger of some kind. Be careful—both of you."

"We will," Wilson assured her, his good-nature warring with his anger over whether or not to remain at odds with her. "Gotta go." He hung up and took a deep breath. She was incredibly puzzling. There was something going on with her that he would be quite worried about if he allowed himself to care. He didn't; right now his focus and energy was on House first and foremost. It would always be that way.

He next called Dr. Nolan. Wilson had promised to keep him updated on the well-being of the diagnostician. He knew that the psychiatrist cared about House more than was usual between doctor and patient. He got the therapist's answering machine and left a brief message assuring him that House was alright and that they would call him again another time. The final call was to room service. He was hungry and by the way the diagnostician had scarfed down the hospital food at lunch, which he usually turned his nose up at—who could blame him?—the man was hungry and would benefit from a real meal of good food. The oncologist was merciful—he ordered him something meaty and would force him to eat healthier starting tomorrow.

He was just hanging up with room service when he heard his name yelled from the bathroom. The younger man rolled his eyes and made his way there.

"You bellowed, Sire?" Wilson said sarcastically as he entered the bathroom. Try as he might he couldn't stop sneaking looks at House's body. He felt his cock twitch with interest.

"I did," the older man said with an imperious nod. "What have you been up to?"

"Arranging for his majesty's dinner to be brought up for him," was the answer from a mouth twisted into a wry smirk.

Immediately House put on a pouty face; apparently he was feeling better, which was a relief. "I thought you were going to join me in here! Now the water's cold and I'm ready to get out."

"Well to make it up to you," Wilson told him, his brown eyes sparkling, "We'll have dinner first and then have our dessert after I give you a royal massage."

House smiled coyly, "I like make up massages." He wagged his eyebrows. "I'm getting out so I can enjoy the appetizer before the food gets here!"

"Then you better get out quick. The food will be here in fifteen minutes," Wilson told him.

House carefully began the process of extricating himself from the Jacuzzi. The younger man hung around just in case he needed some assistance. He knew better than to offer help to his lover unless he was asked. The diagnostician asked him to act by steadying him as he attempted to pull himself to a standing position on his left leg only using the safety bar that was fitted into the bathroom of the suite. After two failed attempts Wilson wanted to ask him if he could help more but held his tongue. He could tell by the determined look in his partner's eyes that the diagnostician was not yet to admit defeat. He took a deep breath and then pulled on the bar with all his might and managed, with Wilson spotting him, to get to his foot on the third try.

"Knew I could do it," House muttered, avoiding Wilson's eyes. The oncologist knew how proud his best friend and lover was and how much he hated it when he needed help. Wilson wisely said nothing, pretending he hadn't heard him. He watched as the older man slowly stretched out his right leg. Except for a small wince at the very start he seemed to be able to move it a little easier and with less pain than before the bath. Next he tried to put some weight on his bad leg. That he found much more painful and Wilson could see the suffering in his azure eyes. In spite of the pain, however, he managed to put about half-weight on the leg before having to ease off again.

"The good stuff's wearing off," House told his partner softly.

"As soon as you're out and settled I'll get you something for the pain," the younger man assured him simply.

Allowing himself to be used for whatever balance and support the diagnostician needed, Wilson helped him out of the tub and onto the soft bath mat. House stood sullenly as he relied on his lover to fetch his cane and a towel.

"I think I've got it from here," he told the oncologist simply, avoiding his gaze. "Why don't you go out and find something to watch on TV—anything but chick-flicks!"

Smirking, Wilson bowed at the waist dramatically, "Your wish is my command, Sire."

"Save that thought," House said, a smile tugging at his mouth. The younger man chuckled and then left the bathroom, going to the neighboring bedroom and getting the bed set up for the diagnostician. It felt so good just to be able to kid around with him again. He had been worried for so long about House that he'd forgotten how much fun they had together when they were both more relaxed and themselves.

Once he had the bed and extra cushions ready he went to the flatscreen TV at the end of the bed and found the remote; he was searching through the various channels when there was a knock at the door. It had to be room service with their dinner. He went to answer the door. A bell hop stood in the corridor with a cart loaded with trays.

"Dr. J. Wilson?" the hotel employee asked.

"That's right," the oncologist told him, stepping aside and holding the door open. The employee pushed the cart into the room and then looked questioningly as to where he wanted the food. Wilson immediately caught on. "Oh, uh, right. In the bedroom would be great, just leave the cart there by the, uh, window there—great!"

Wilson grabbed his wallet and tipped the bell hop generously. The employee allowed himself out. Lifting the silver lids off of the trays briefly to take a peek at what was underneath, the oncologist allowed the delicious aromas of the food escape into the air. As if on cue the bathroom door opened the entire way and House emerged wearing his pajama bottoms but no shirt.

"Do I smell food?" the diagnostician asked rhetorically. "I am so hungry I could eat an entire steer right now."

"You'll have to settle for prime rib," the oncologist told him. The child-like smile that emerged on House's face at the mention of his meal was all the thanks Wilson needed. "But first let's get you comfortable and get that leg elevated."

House reached the bed slowly but under his own power. The pain he was suffering was being masterfully hidden by an impassive mask on his face but his lover knew that it had to be great. He could see the strain in the older man's eyes, the tension in the muscles of his face as he clenched his teeth, the increase in the rate of his breathing and the tiny droplets of perspiration forming on his forehead. With tiny movements he turned so that he could sit on the edge of the bed. He set his cane against the wall near the headboard. Lifting his left leg he swung it onto the bed with little difficulty and then scooted his backside a little further onto the bed so that when he lifted his right leg up he could set it quickly down again on the pillows Wilson was setting up for that purpose.

It was very difficult for Wilson to stand by and watch as House set to work on lifting his ruined leg up onto the bed. He was there to lend assistance when and only when House requested it. With both hands the diagnostician slowly lifted his right leg up. It was obviously very painful but House seemed to be able to tolerate it. Wilson had to concentrate on not displaying his pained expression from knowing how much his best friend was hurting and being unable to do much about it. It took a couple of long minutes but the older man managed to get the leg up and then down onto the nest of pillows all on his own. He exhaled with relief. Wilson also let go of the breath he had been holding the entire time he watched.

Immediately the oncologist helped prop up his lover into a comfortable sitting position. He was leaning over House at one point when the diagnostician grabbed at his shirt and pulled Wilson towards him. He pressed a hungry kiss to the younger man's lips. It wasn't rough and bruising but it was definitely passionate and Wilson found himself returning it with a hunger of his own. When House pulled out of the kiss to breathe Wilson took the opportunity to speak.

"Greg," he said, breathing a little more quickly than usual. "I want this…but first you need to eat and take your meds and--."

House cut him off by covering his mouth again only this time the kiss was incredibly gentle and loving. Wilson melted into it, enjoying the way his lover's tongue caressed and tickled his own. After a few moments House pulled away, blue eyes gazing into brown. Wilson felt like his soul was suddenly laid bare in front of the older man's penetrating gaze but instead of feeling afraid and desiring to cover himself protectively he basked in the love he found in the azure depths. He also saw the vulnerability and desire he knew existed behind House's prickly façade and smiled lovingly.

"You worry about me too much," the diagnostician told him. "Why?"

"Because I love you," the oncologist whispered. "If anything happened to you, I don't think I'd survive it. You're everything to me."

Shaking his head in wonder House gently cupped his lover's cheek with a hand and caressed it with his thumb gently along the cheekbone. "I don't know when it happened," he murmured.

Wilson frown slightly, puzzled. "When what happened?"

"When I was lucky enough to have you fall in love me," he answered. "I've never been so lucky before. James, tell me that you're real. Tell me that this isn't a delusion and that you really are here, in love with me. I'm not imagining this, am I?"

Smiling warmly Wilson leaned forward and kissed House's forehead tenderly, and then placed small kisses over each closed eyelid, the tip of his nose, both cheeks and his chin before bring his mouth back to his and placing a soft, lingering kiss there.

"This is as real as it gets, Greg," he said quietly, caressing his scruffy face. "I'm really here, you're not imagining things and I am most definitely in love with you."

A tear that had been forming in the diagnostician's eye broke free and ran down his cheek the moment he blinked.

"I love you," he whispered. "Please don't ever leave me."

"Never," Wilson assured him. "Now, let's eat before everything becomes ice cold, okay?"

Receiving a nod for an answer Wilson pulled away and stood up. He went to House's duffle bag and pulled out the bottle of ibuprofen, handing over the proper dosage; the diagnostician dry swallowed the tablets. Wilson returned the ibuprofen bottle to the duffle bag; he went to the tray and offered House's food to him. By the time Wilson began to eat his meal House had nearly eaten half of his and wasn't letting up. It amazed the oncologist just how much the man could eat and the speed at which he could do so. He worried that someday House would choke on his food.

"Greg," Wilson commented, frowning slightly, "those hard, white things sticking out of your gums are called teeth and we have them so we can chew our food into small pieces so we don't choke and need our best friend to perform the Heimlich on us."

"Who's 'we'?" House asked, his fork pausing mid-air long enough to allow him to speak. "You got a friend in your pocket that I don't know anything about?" He shoved the forkful into his mouth.

Wilson sighed, shaking his head in resignation. "Never mind. Just do me a favor and quit smacking your lips. It's disgusting."

"At least I don't lick my lips after every single bite," the diagnostician groused, not looking away from the Nascar event on the television. "The only time I want to see your tongue that much is when it's licking me, not your face."

"Keep talking like that and you're not going to see it licking you for a long time," the oncologist quipped in warning.

House scoffed at that, pointing an empty fork at his lover. "Like you could resist me for any length of time! Inside a week you'd be begging me to let you suck me and you know it."

Wilson glared at him, indignantly. He wanted to shoot down his partner's incredible ego but the fact was he was probably right. He hated it when House was right about that sort of thing but the older man nearly always was—and he knew it.

"Don't be too certain about that," the younger man told him, annoyed. "Even the great Gregory House can be resisted."

"Not by you," The diagnostician said, glancing sideways at his lover with sparkling eyes.

Wilson simply raised an eyebrow, which was their equivalent of throwing down the gauntlet. One week? He could resist for one week, he was certain of it. But did he want to? Since seeing House in the Jacuzzi he had been fighting his desire to simply push everything else aside and attack him passionately. He not only wanted sex with him, he wanted to make love with him and hold him close afterwards. He needed that intimacy again.

They sat without talking for the next fifteen, twenty minutes, watching race cars volley for position as they rounded the racetrack at bone-crunching speeds. Wilson gathered their empty dishes and put them back onto the cart which he then wheeled out to the corridor outside their suite before returning to the bedroom quickly.

"I'm going to take a shower," he told the older man. He went to his suitcase and pulled out pajama pants and a t-shirt, his toothbrush and toothpaste.

"Knock yourself out," House answered blandly.

The oncologist stepped into the bathroom and shut the door. He set his items down on the counter and then proceeded to brush his teeth. After that he used the toilet and then undressed. He went to the shower and began to run the water, adjusting it for temperature. Grabbing one of the complimentary bars of soap and a shampoo he pulled the valve and water began to spray down from the showerhead. He stepped carefully into the shower, pulling the curtain shut. For a couple of minutes he simply stood beneath the hot, pulsating water as it washed over his head and body and pounded his shoulders and back soothingly. He imagined all of the stress of the last couple of days washing off of him and running down the drain. Wilson opened the tiny bottle of shampoo and poured a generous amount into his cupped hand. It smelled like citrus and sandalwood. He massaged it into his hair and then rinsed, breathing deeply the steamy air into his lungs. He then soaped himself down and lathered up, taking his time. He began to rinse himself off under the spray.

"_Wilson_!!" He heard House scream suddenly from the bedroom. The younger man's heart stopped in his chest, or so it felt. Panicked by it Wilson shut the water off abruptly, ripped the curtain aside and jumped out of the shower still a little soapy. He grabbed a towel and swung the bathroom door open. He wrapped the towel awkwardly around himself as he bolted into the bedroom and to House's side.

"W-what? What's wrong?" he cried out and then stared down at his lover. The diagnostician sat up in bed exactly the way he had been when Wilson left him a few minutes before. He looked relaxed and as contented as he ever looked. His eyes looked up at the younger man mischievously and a smirk struggled to cross his face.

"Nothing's wrong," House said innocently, shrugging. He turned the TV off and set the remote control onto the bedside table.

The oncologist stared at him incredulously, his mouth slightly agape and his bushy brown eyebrows touching in a frown over his nose, dripping water along with the rest of him. The fear he had felt quickly gave way to anger. "Y-you—you—you screamed like you were being murdered for nothing?!" Wilson stammered furiously. "W-why the h-hell would you do—do that? I nearly h-had a heart attack!"

"I didn't call you for _nothing_," House told him, rolling his eyes. "I had a reason, but nothing is _wrong_."

"Then _why_?"

House sighed and then grabbed the younger man without warning and pulled him down onto the bed with him. Passionately he crashed his lips onto the other's and bruisingly kissed Wilson with a hunger that couldn't be satiated by food. He forced his tongue past Wilson's lips and into his mouth, wrestling with his partners tongue, asserting dominance before the oncologist even knew what was happening. House's arms were wrapped around him, holding him closely, possessively. The embrace spoke, saying, 'I have you, you're mine, and you're not getting away'.

Wilson had no intention of trying. He returned the kiss, fighting House's tongue, nipping at his lips, groaning softly into his mouth. His left hand rose to the back of the older man's head and combed his shorn, graying hair while his right hand lay on his chest and began to caress House's nipple with his thumb. He knew that the diagnostician was very sensitive there. They parted only long enough to breathe before joining their mouths together again. House deepened the kiss, smoky blue eyes meeting lusty brown ones. Wilson heard his breath catch as he continued to circle around House's areola with more pressure now.

The oncologist forgot all about the fact that he was soapy and soaking wet and the diagnostician gaven sign of noticing. He rolled the younger man onto his back and his hands began to descend down from Wilson's back towards his rear. Making contact with the wet towel House pulled out of the kiss and looked down at Wilson, shaking his head.

"That has to go," he growled softly, beginning to work at unwrapping it from around his lover's hips, and Wilson helped by lifting his hips off of the bed to free the towel section that had been trapped underneath him. House pulled it out and tossed it aimlessly away. His hands then travelled unimpeded to the younger man's ass, and began to massage the gluteals which brought a growl out of Wilson.

Pushing on House's chest, the oncologist changed positions with his lover. The older man had slid down from his sitting position until he was lying completely on the bed. Wilson began to pay attention to the soft, sensitive areas behind House's left ear and under his jaw, leaving sloppy kisses and licks, moving slowly to the junction point of his neck and shoulder. He bit down enough to make the diagnostician wince but it had the desired effect of increasing his arousal. Wilson could feel movement at his lover's groin and that only caused his own erection to harden. Sucking on the bite mark he playfully left a large red mark that House would grouse about later. He wasn't grousing now; he was softly moaning instead.

Wilson withdrew to look at House's face and the desire he saw looking back at him only made him harder. The oncologist began to kiss down the older man's throat, pausing to suck on his Adam's apple before descending further to his chest where his mouth found one of House's tits. He played with it with his tongue and began to suckle softly at first and then with increasing insistence.

"James," House gasped, and his dick hardened inside his pajama bottoms against Wilson's leg, causing the younger man to groan with excitement.

Wilson's mouth descended further until it reached the waistband of House's bottoms. He disengaged his hands from elsewhere to bring them down to his lover's hips where they began to tug down on the pants. House lifted his hips long enough to allow Wilson to pull the waistband past his buttocks. Being mindful of his ruined leg, as always, the younger man pulled the bottoms of all together and kicked them to the end of the bed and out of the way. He was pleased with the fact that his partner wasn't wearing underwear.

"You were right," Wilson said lustfully, "I _can't_ resist you." He took the diagnostician's hot, hard cock in one hand and began to run it down his length a couple of times, causing the older man to gasp in pure pleasure. He lowered his head and began to tease by flicking his tongue against the head of House's penis, bringing a moan and a couple of curse words out of him. Wilson smiled, and then slowed his tongue down and began to run the tip into the slit. The older man bucked involuntarily and thrust towards Wilson; he was clawing at the sheet on the mattress beneath him. Pre-cum began to emerge from the slit as House became more excited. Deciding that he'd tortured him enough, the oncologist took the entire head into his mouth and began to run his tongue in circles around it a few times before sucking a few times, then repeating the pattern. At the same time he grabbed the shaft just below the head with one hand and the base of the shaft near the scrotum with the other and with a light touch began to run his hand across the surface of the delicate skin as if ringing out a wash cloth.

"Oh my god!" House gasped, beginning to undulate his hips, thrusting his cock deeper into his lover's mouth. "James…James, please…deeper…!"

Wilson grinned and then lowered his mouth over House's length, taking it all deeply into his mouth and throat, ignoring the gag reflex. He began to move his head up and down slowly and rhythmically. The older man thrust in time with the younger man, his entire body tensing from the building pressure in him. His head was tilted back, his eyes partially closed, a glazed over, unfocussed look in their azure depths as waves of pleasure buffeted him. Breathing quickly, House began to murmur , but his voice grew in volume the closer he got to climax.

"James, Jimmy…oh yes..oh fuck, oh fuck! Ahhh, I…I can't…not …longer…!" His speech quickly transformed into meaningless vowels and consonants and then he began to keen softly and stopped long enough to cry out Wilson's name. Both he and Wilson were moving faster now but just as deliberately and the oncologist could tell that his partner was on the edge. Two more thrusts were made before House erupted, spewing warm, sticky squirts into the younger man's mouth. Wilson swallowed greedily and House continued to thrust a few more times until becoming still.

The oncologist withdrew his mouth and quickly moved up on the older man to kiss him deeply. The diagnostician was still a little out of it from the incredible intensity of his orgasm but as the younger man continued to place wet kisses all over his face he began to breathe regularly again and his hands began to roam over Wilson's nude body, causing him to moan longingly. The younger man was incredibly hard, almost painfully so, dripping with pre-cum and desperate for release.

"Baby…," Wilson cried softly, haltingly between sucks and kisses, "Greg, baby, I need you…!"

"Inside?" House asked him, his voice deep and lusty. Wilson nodded emphatically, already rubbing his hard cock against his lover. Wilson sat up and away from the headboard now so as to leave plenty of room for his lover's legs, especially the damaged one. House carefully scooted around to face him. Some of his own cum had overflowed Wilson's mouth and remained on his chin and chest. The diagnostician scooped it up with a couple of fingers and rubbed onto and into his own anus and then the head of his partner's pulsating cock; Wilson shuddered at the mere contact.

Wilson could only think of entering his best friend. In the back of his mind he knew that House had to have been in pain with the position he was taking but it didn't register just then and the older man wasn't complaining. Slowly House brought himself towards the oncologist with one leg on either side of his hips and wrapped them the best that he could around his waist. Lifting himself with his strong upper body, the older man began to lower himself onto Wilson's aching penis. He went shallow at first, gently easing himself through the opening. House flinched at the first full thrust but after that there was no problem. He placed his hands on Wilson's shoulders for leverage and support and the younger man's hands went to his lover's hips to steady him. House began to press against the younger man's shoulders to lift himself up before returning down allowing his partner's length to plunge deeply into him. Wilson began to tremble and moan with each movement, adding his own thrusts. The younger man shifted his hips slightly and this caused his cock to contact House's prostate, sending him into spasms of intense pleasure. They both rutted that way, slowly and steadily, both men panting and gasping. Their bodies trembled and glistened with sweat.

"Greg," Wilson whispered between breaths and thrusts, "You're…incredible! God…I love…you. More and more…oh fuck! Faster, baby…please!"

House obliged, the incredible sensations from his prostate easily overwhelming the pain in his leg. He was already hard again and he felt the pressure building in his lower abdomen, causing him to moan unabashedly. House came first but Wilson's climax was immediately after; throughout his orgasm he had cried out House's name. Tears ran down the diagnostician's face. He pulled himself off of Wilson's softening organ and carefully turned himself around with his head towards the headboard again. Surprisingly he had managed to keep most of the pressure off of his ruined leg and while it throbbed it didn't come close to hurting like it had before his bath.

Wilson took a few minutes to recover and then rolled off of the bed and went to the bathroom, returning with a washcloth wetted with very warm water. He began to clean House off lovingly, his eyes glued to his lover's and then he cleaned himself. He returned the cloth to the bathroom and then quickly climbed into bed with the older man, pulling the covers up around them. He felt House's arms snake around his waist and draw him close to him and into his embrace. Wilson sighed and rested his head against the diagnostician's shoulder. They laid there for a while, wrapped up in each other and Wilson couldn't think of anywhere he would rather be at that moment than with Gregory House.

"Thank you," House whispered, "for loving me."

Wilson smiled, feeling warm, safe and very sleepy. "Thank _you_," he replied softly, "for letting me."

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1 ABT-594 is property of Abbott Pharmaceuticals and its reference here is simply for purposes of fiction and the trials mentioned herein are **strictly** **fictional.** (so please don't sue me!)


	14. Chapter 14 Mens Rea

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: It's taking me a little longer these days to update because with spring comes a lot more work around home, so my apologies. Sorry, no smut this time around but we do get back to Kenny and what's happening to him ;D It's a lot shorter than last chapter but I stopped at what felt like a natural break to me. I hope this doesn't suck too badly °_°

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established. This chapter contains descriptions of child abuse and may be disturbing to some readers.

**Rated M** for coarse language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

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**Chapter Thirteen: Mens Rea**

_Definition of Mens rea: (n) Latin for a "guilty mind" or criminal intent in committing an act._

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In the morning Drs. Gregory House and James Wilson headed to the hotel restaurant for their breakfast meeting with the private investigator Walt Bujold. They were a little early arriving but the man was already waiting for them at a table. The host led them to the table and as they approached Walt rose to his feet to greet them.

Bujold was of average height and a little heavy set, although it would be a stretch to call him obese. He was in his late fifties, early sixties with hair that was once a dark blond but was now mostly silver grey and hazel green eyes. He was an attractive man who obviously paid attention to his appearance without obsessing over it; he was neatly coiffed, clean shaven, manicured and wore a smoky grey two piece suit of good cut, white shirt and a tie that matched House's eye color exactly. His shoes were black leather and expensive-looking. There was a white gold wedding band on his left hand and a Cartier watch on his right wrist. On his right hand was a class ring from Stanford. He carried himself with an air of confidence and grace. House, who was rarely impressed with trappings, was tentatively impressed by what he saw. It was possible it was due to the fact that he appeared to be the antithesis of Lucas Douglas. Bujold smiled pleasantly but reservedly at the doctors and extended a hand to Wilson.

"Walt Bujold," he said with a smooth bass voice and a slight Illinois accent. "You must be Drs. Wilson and House?"

Wilson smiled politely and nodded, shaking the private investigator's grip. House could tell that his partner was impressed with the man already.

"Good to meet you," the oncologist said in response. "I'm Doctor Wilson and this is my partner, Dr. House."

As if able to read House better than most strangers were able to, he refrained from offering a hand to the diagnostician and nodded politely to him instead. "Nice to meet you, Doctor."

"Likewise," House said quietly, politely, with a nod. When he tried he knew how to behave himself—it was just that usually he didn't bother trying. The three men sat down at the table and the waiting host placed menus down in front of each of them; after taking a beverage order from them—three coffees and two orange juices—the host left them.

After a minute or two of friendly but empty chit chat between Wilson and Bujold, which House pretty much tuned out due to boredom, their server arrived with their beverages and took their food order. Once she was gone again the private detective got down to business.

"After talking with you last night, Dr. Wilson," Bujold said, reaching down to grab his portfolio bag and lift it to his lap, "I called a couple of contacts of mine at CPS and asked them to put some feelers out for me concerning Kenny Baker's case and any possible links that may exist between the workers on his case, the boy's mother, and foster parents. I got a call first thing this morning and my contact faxed me some information I think you gentlemen with find interesting." He immediately found the file he wanted and set the bag back down to the floor.

Opening the file on the table in front of him he passed copies of facsimiles from the state office of Vital Statistics, CPS and the DMV. Wilson held them so both he and House could see it. House quickly perused the information and slowly nodded.

Bujold explained to them the significance of the information on the facsimiles and how they connected in case he was talking to a couple of idiots; House grudgingly forgave him, knowing that he himself felt it necessary to explain things to his patients and their families in the same way, not assuming they had an IQ over seventy no matter what they did for a living.

"As you can see, the primary worker in Baker's case was a Mrs. Talbot," the P.I. told them. "Her supervisor's name is on the line right underneath: Ms. Betty Grady. On the next two pages is the paperwork filed at CPS confirming the names of the foster parents assigned to your boy and their current address. My source at DMV ran the names through their system and came up with their drivers licenses, right there on the fifth and sixth pages. On page seven are the licenses for Eva Baker, Joseph Fromm and Faye Fromm."

House recognized only one of the faces; Talbot's. Both he and Wilson had met with her several times over the past few months but neither of them had ever met Talbot's bigoted supervisor face to face. She looked to be a woman in her fifties with an angular face that was not what he would consider comely and stark black hair. There was something about her face that drew his attention, but he couldn't put his finger on what exactly it was. He ignored the pictures of Kenny's mother and foster parents; looking at them only made him angry and his anger caused his ruined thigh to hurt more.

"I dropped their names to my friend at Vital Statistics," Bujold continued, "and she sent back what she was able to access so far." He picked up another packet of facsimiles and handed those over to the two doctors as well. The first few pages of the second packet were copies of two birth certificates. The first Birth Certificate belonged to a Cecily Eva Grady, born nineteen-ninety-one in Chicago, Illinois. The second birth certificate belonged to a Faith Geneva Bordon, born in nineteen-eighty-eight, also in Chicago.

"Look at this," Wilson said to his partner. "Listed as the mother on Faith Bordon's certificate is the name Sarah Elizabeth Bordon and the father's name is left blank but on Cecily Eva Grady's birth certificate the mother's name is listed as Sarah Elizabeth Grady nee Bordon and the father's name is Grant Bordon. These girls are sisters."

"Half-sisters," House corrected, pointing to the names. "Faith is Faye Fromm and Cecily Eva is plain old Eva Baker. And mommy is none other than Elizabeth "Betty" Grady, Talbot's supervisor. Goddamnit! How wasn't this picked up by someone in CPS? A bunch of fucking morons work for our government!"

"And that surprises you?" Wilson retorted, smirking bitterly. He looked up at Bujold. "You got all of this in one night? This is amazing! This is all we need to get Kenny removed from the Fromms. I'm impressed!"

"Don't be two quick on the draw," Bujold told him, frowning slightly. "We still don't have anything concrete to show that Faye Fromm is, in fact, Faith Bordon. So until we do, none of this is enough to prove the familial connection between Fromm and Baker. My contact is working on finding the marriage certificate for the Fromms but so far she hasn't been able to. Also, we have to have concrete proof that Kenny Baker is being abused by the Fromms and that Eva Baker has had actual direct contact with her son since he was removed from her care. I'm afraid, Dr. House, that your eyewitness account is simply your word against theirs so far. The fact that Baker was at the party Dr. Wilson told me about on the phone doesn't prove anything conclusively. So I still have my work cut out for me."

"_We_ do," House insisted, frowning. "If that marriage license doesn't turn up we'll need another way of connecting the dots. There's two conclusive ways; we get a current sample of Faye Fromm's footprint and compare it to the baby's footprint on the certificate or we get samples of DNA from Grady, Baker and Fromm and run them for familial markers."

"Of course," Wilson scoffed sarcastically. "We'll just knock on their doors and ask them to submit blood samples or imprints of their footprints. Piece of cake!"

"Idiot!" House replied, glaring at the oncologist. "We ask for nothing! We _take_. All we need to do is obtain a saliva or hair sample from them without them realizing it. We follow them around, wait for them to drop a cigarette butt or throw a paper cup with a straw away at some fast-food joint. We wait until an opportunity arrives to get close enough to one of their jackets and pick off a couple of lost hairs to check the mitochondrial DNA."

"Sounds like you've already been suspecting a genetic connection, Doctor," Bujold spoke up, staring at the diagnostician.

"I noticed a resemblance between Baker and Fromm when I saw them together at the party," House agreed quickly. "I suspected there might be something there. There's a major problem with DNA comparison. Unlike on TV, isolating the DNA and then comparing will take too much time. Kenny is in grave danger of further abuse. I think he's sick as well. We need to get him out of there sooner rather than later."

Their server arrived with their food, refilled their coffees and then left. House had ordered a double order of French toast and bacon. Wilson watched with disgust as House covered everything with a thick coat of maple syrup and dove right in to his meal.

"I've really got to check your triglyceride and cholesterol levels to find out how soon I'm going to have to start hunting for a new roommate after your heart attack," the oncologist told him, frowning with disapproval.

"What?" House asked innocently with a mouth so full of food that it sounded more like 'aah?'

House noticed Bujold's mouth twitch as he fought not to grin. To further cover his amusement he lifted his coffee to his lips and took a tentative sip. After that he picked up where the diagnostician had left off before their food had arrived.

"Our best bet is to keep surveilling the primaries," he told them, "and keep track of their interactions with each other. I'll call one of my associates to trail Grady. Hopefully we'll catch her making contact with one of her daughters; that alone will be powerful evidence of a link between them, familial or not. I'll also get onto getting a watch over Baker and the Fromms. If we're lucky, my contact at Vital Statistics will find the marriage certificate by the end of today, but no guarantees."

House washed down a mouthful of French toast with his coffee before speaking up. "I'll continue to keep watch over the Fromms. I want to keep a personal eye on Kenny. If I see any further deterioration in his health, I'm not going to wait for any damned certificate or surveillance evidence."  
"Greg," Wilson said, frowning worriedly. "You can't just go and pluck Kenny out of there without permission. You'll end up in prison for kidnapping! I'm worried about Kenny too, but we need to act within the law if we ever hope of gaining guardianship of him."

The private investigator nodded in strong agreement. "I must advise you against that, Doctor. I've been doing this for nearly three decades and not once has taking a matter into his own hands benefitted the client. Also, I'll be forced due to professional conduct regulations to terminate our business relationship and report any illegal activity I'm aware of to local law enforcement. However, if it's a matter of preserving Kenny's life, your best action would be to contact the police immediately."

Shaking his head, the diagnostician replied, "Uh uh. We've played by the rules and the only thing that has happened is Kenny has gone from the frying pan into the fire. We call the cops, they'll call in CPS and Kenny's shit-out-of-luck when that happens."

"You didn't allow me to finish," Bujold told him with commendable patience. "You must contact the police first, but then, if you can prove the immediacy of the threat to Kenny if you do not act on his behalf, you do have legal grounds to intervene to protect him, including removing him from the immediate danger—_proving_ it is _key_, however. Kenny must be in imminent threat of death unless you intervene and you have to be able to prove that with evidence admissible in a court of law and to the satisfaction of the legal definition of imminent threat of death."

House glared angrily at the P.I. and wanted to argue with him, but he knew he really had no reasonable argument to make. Bujold was right, and taking his frustration out on him might make the diagnostician feel better temporarily but it wouldn't solve anything. Ordinarily House would start yelling regardless, but he didn't want to risk screwing up anything when it came to the five-year-old's safety. He balled his hands up into fists so tightly that his fingernails cut into the flesh of his palms and caused blood to appear. Wilson must have noticed this and grabbed one of his lover's fists and held it in his hand until the diagnostician's fingers relaxed under his touch. He glanced over to the oncologist and saw the empathy in his chocolate brown eyes—empathy, not pity. Wilson wouldn't insult the older doctor by displaying pity for him.

"You can't sit for hours in a car again," Wilson told his partner. "You'll only end up back in the hospital with your leg again. I don't want to risk having you code again and not being successfully resuscitated. I'll do the surveillance. I'm a doctor too, remember? If I see Kenny in imminent peril I'll act."

"Actually," Bujold interjected, "I could use your help in gathering that DNA evidence you spoke of, Dr. House. We can't rely on the results coming back soon enough to get Kenny out of there, but once he is it will be useful in court."

"I see what's happening," House groused irritably. "Let's keep the cripple occupied so he feels useful but doesn't fuck things up."

"For god's sake, Greg!" Wilson exclaimed and then, noticing a few eyes around the restaurant glancing in his direction, he lowered the volume on his voice. "Nobody's trying to 'occupy the cripple'. Just listen to what Walt has to say!"

"Dr. House," Bujold said to him soberly, bordering on severely, "I won't insult you by claiming to understand where you're coming from, but I can assure you, I don't believe in patronizing people and I wasn't suggesting that I start it with you. Collecting the DNA samples won't be easy and quite frankly I need the help. Otherwise I have to pull one of my people off of another case to assist me. I have no problem doing that but I don't see the point when you're just as capable as anyone else to do it.

House looked away for a moment, allowing his gaze to fall on a cheap painting on a nearby wall. He massaged his cramping thigh with the heel of his right hand. He quickly looked back to Wilson and then Bujold. Giving the P.I. a curt nod in agreement, the diagnostician hunted out his lover's gaze with his azure blue eyes, gathering strength from the trust and belief he saw in them.

"Good," Bujold said, all business again. "After breakfast we get started—the sooner, the better for Kenny."

* * *

It was dusty and hard to breathe where he was, but it was the safest place he could think of to hide. No place was very safe, however. He knew that they would find him eventually and when they did they would punish him for running away and hiding. Should he just give up and come out from the dark, smothering closet before they found him on their own? They may not get as angry as they would if he kept running from them. They might not get the razor strap. They might choose to use the board instead. The board didn't hurt nearly as much as the razor strap. It caused him pain, but it didn't leave welts and cuts the same way as the alternative did. They might not even spank him at all of he promised not to run away again and cooperated with them for the rest of the day. He knew that he was going to the Bad Place whether he cooperated or not.

As much as the five-year-old wanted to avoid further pain he was terrified to reveal himself. He knew that sometimes the grown-ups would punish him really bad whether he cooperated with them or not. He was so afraid of the Bad Place that he had bad dreams about it every night when he tried to sleep on his mattress in the cold, damp basement. He would scream and cry in his sleep as he had the nightmares and when he woke up he was usually covered in sweat and urine. Joe and Faye would hear him from upstairs and one of them, usually Faye, would come down to the basement to punish him for waking them up. Sometimes she would just use the board on his bum and the back of his thighs but sometimes she would hit him elsewhere, including his private parts, until he went to sleep again. That kind of sleep was different from the sleep he had when he had the nightmares. When he went to sleep the special way, he didn't have any dreams at all.

Kenny could here Joe hunting for him in his and Faye's bedroom upstairs; Joe was saying nice things like he always did when Kenny hid, but he wasn't fooled by that. Once Joe found him, all the nice things and promises Joe said would disappear and instead Kenny would be punished. Sometimes punishment meant he didn't get anything to eat for the rest of the day, not that he got to eat a lot anyway. Sometimes he got a piece of buttered toast and a glass of water for breakfast, sometimes a small bowl of dry Cheerios. For lunch or supper he sometimes got a little macaroni and cheese or a hot dog wiener without the bun or a peanut butter sandwich. He always felt hungry and thirsty, but he was getting used to it now, so it didn't bother him as much as it used to.

Sometimes when he felt really hungry he remembered the spaghetti he got to eat in the hospital. He really liked it, and with the spaghetti he'd get apple juice, some raw carrots and usually chocolate pudding for dessert. One time Dr. H came to see him when he was having spaghetti for supper and taught him how to slurp up the noodles through his lips one at a time. Kenny always got a lot of the tomato sauce all over his face when he did that, and when the nurse came in to get his tray she asked him how he got so messy and told him to eat more neatly in the future. When she left Dr. H. made faces at her and Kenny laughed so hard that it hurt his stitches. Sometimes Dr. H. would laugh, too, but he always stopped laughing if anyone else came into the room. Kenny felt special because he seemed to be the only one who ever got to see his doctor smile or laugh. He always pretended to be grumpy around everyone else. He missed Dr. H. He hadn't been around lately and the boy wondered if he was too busy making other people better to come and visit him anymore.

The five-year-old was brought out of his reverie by the sound of Joe's voice getting louder. Kenny curled up tighter into a little ball and pulled a blanket over his head. It was smothering in the small closet and the blanket only made it worse, but he hoped that it would hide him if Joe found out where he was and opened the closet door to get him. Kenny knew how to sit very still and be very quiet.

His stomach rumbled with hunger and he hugged his body, trying to keep it from making any more noise. Kenny remembered the time that Dr. H.'s friend Dr. James came to visit him with a special package wrapped up in shiny paper, like a present. When Kenny unwrapped it he discovered that it was a plastic container and inside were chocolate chip cookies. Dr. James told him that he made them for him and he could have one right then and then he could have one anytime the nurses told him it was alright because eating too many cookies could make him have a tummy ache. Since he was a doctor like Dr. H. the boy believed him. They were the best tasting cookies he'd ever eaten. His mommy would give him cookies sometimes, but they were always the hard kind that came out of a bag that she got at the grocery store and they didn't taste as good. Dr. H. tried to steal one of his good cookies but Dr. James slapped his hand before he could, telling him that there was more at home.

Kenny found out that the doctors lived in the same place called the Loft. He liked Dr. James, but he wasn't as funny as Dr. H. was. He smiled more, though, and liked to talk with Kenny about lots of different things. Dr. James even taught him to tie a neck tie just like grown up boys did. Dr. H. had made jokes about Dr. James but he hadn't understood all of them. Dr. James had, though, and sometimes the looks he got on his face would make Dr. H. smile, so Kenny figured only him _and_ Dr. James were special enough to see him do that.

A tear ran down Kenny's face as he thought about his doctor-friends. He wished he could go back to the hospital where he could see them again and eat good stuff like spaghetti. He wished he could become their little boy and live with them in the Loft. It occurred to him that maybe he really was as bad a boy as the Fromms told him he was and that's why he would never get to stay with Dr. H. and Dr. James.

The sound of Joe coming down the stairs into the basement made Kenny freeze like a deer in headlights. He knew he had to stop making any sound even when he breathed and couldn't move a muscle. He couldn't give himself away.

"Kenny?" he heard Joe call from the furnace room. "Where are you? Kenny, if you come out now I won't spank you but if I have to find you then you're going to get a spanking so bad you won't be able to sit down for a week! Do you hear me?"

Oh, Kenny heard him alright. _Anytime_ he got a spanking he couldn't sit down for a week. In fact, he'd had so many of them he hurt all the time, even when he wasn't seated. He began to tremble. The five-year-old knew that it was only a matter of time before Joe reached the closet and when he did, Kenny was in for a lot of pain. It wasn't so much the spankings on the bum that he feared the most. No there were things that his foster parents did to him that were _far_ more painful and demeaning than that. Those were the things he had nightmares about, the things that Kenny was hiding from now.

Joe's footsteps were moving in the direction of the spare bedroom, inside the closet of which the boy huddled in terror. He knew that his time was up and in a minute or two the closet door would fly open.

"Are you in here, Kenny?" Joe called out as he stepped into the bedroom. The only carpeted area in the basement was that room and it muffled the sound of Joe's movements so the boy couldn't be certain exactly where he was. Only his voice gave him a clue to that.

"That's _it_, Kenny!" the foster father snarled angrily, his voice getting closer and closer to the closet. "You've had your chance to make it easy on yourself. Now I'm going to spank you like you've never been spanked before! Where are you, you little bastard?"

Kenny began to panic; he began to hyperventilate and didn't know anything about self-soothing techniques to calm him. He scrunched his eyes closed tightly and clung to himself. The closet door opened suddenly and two large hands grabbed at the blanket over Kenny, yanking it off of him with ease. The boy kept his eyes closed even as he felt Joe clamp onto his skinny arm and drag him out of the tiny space into the larger bedroom proper. His grip was so tight that a cry of pain escaped the boy's mouth. Joe proceeded to drag him out of the bedroom towards the stairs, putting agonizing strain on his muscles and tendons; they were moving too quickly for the five-year-old's legs to keep up and he ended up being pulled up to the main floor like a ragdoll, his shoulder and hip hitting each step hard before being pulled up to hit the next. The rough concrete edges to each step proceeded to scratch and cut at Kenny's skin wherever his skin was exposed. He was too terrified to cry out in pain or try to fight back and struggle against his captor.

Once they reached the top of the stairs Joe lifted Kenny off of the floor and carried him under one arm through the squalid kitchen and out the back door; they were headed for the garage. A dark grey minivan sat inside with the back hatch open waiting for them. The back seat was folded down to accommodate a large wire dog kennel devoid of any canine. Joe opened the unlocked door and threw Kenny roughly into the kennel; the door was slammed shut and then padlocked. Kenny lay on the metal floor of the cage exactly the way he landed when he was tossed in. He stared up at Joe with horrified green eyes that were filled to overflowing with tears.

"You keep your fucking mouth shut!" Joe growled at him threateningly. "If I hear one whimper out of you I'll stop the van and give you the strap. You understand me?"

Kenny nodded once and then closed his eyes. His undernourished, beaten little body shook violently but he knew better than to make a sound. Unlike his promises, Joe never made empty threats. The foster father slammed the back hatch closed and then rounded the van, climbing into the driver's seat. Kenny heard Faye muttering for the umpteenth time that she was pissed with having to keep the 'little shit' because her 'fucking sister' was a moron.

"Shut the fuck up, Faye!" Joe screamed at her. "I'm sick of your bitching! I told you it's only for three more days, didn't I? So keep your damned mouth shut!"

"Fuck you!" Faye spat at her husband; she didn't say anything more after that, however. Even she was afraid of what Joe was capable of when he was angry.

Kenny heard the garage door start and pull the door up; Joe started the van and then they backed out of the garage. The boy tried to imagine one of the bedtime stories Dr. H. had read to him in the hospital, his way of escaping from the terrifying reality of what he knew he faced once they reached the destination of this drive.


	15. Chapter 15 Unlawful Confinement

**The Law of House**

**Disclaimer**: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: Thanks to all of you who have reviewed! This chapter is also going to be quite angsty and some of you may see it as unrealistic or cliché but it's not as unbelievable as you may think—you'll understand what I'm referring to as you read. It's a very touchy subject I realize but the truth is there are so many children who are abused in one way or another and fall through the holes in the safety nets that are supposed to protect them from such cruelty. I know—I was one of them. There is healing, but it takes a long time and a lot of loving support. So, on with the fic!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated T** for coarse language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Unlawful Confinement**

When the minivan reached its destination Kenny remained prostrate on the floor of the wire kennel he'd been locked into, too frightened to move. A deep sense of dread filled the five-year-old and his heart beat so rapidly in his chest that every so often it felt like it skipped a beat or two. He was on the verge of hyperventilation. His skin was a ghostly white and his mouth and throat felt like they were stuffed with cotton. There was no way he could have cried out for help even if it would have helped.

Joe climbed out of the driver's seat and went around to the back hatch. Kenny jumped in panic at the sound of the latch being released and the hatch lifted open.

"We're here, Kenny," the foster father told him coldly. "We're going to walk into that house like a normal family. You're going to be quiet. If you make a fuss or try to run away you will be punished severely. Do you understand?"

Staring up at Joe with large, petrified green eyes that were swimming with tears, Kenny nodded. He watched the man as he unlocked the door to the cage and held it open.

"Let's go, Kenny," Joe ordered. "Climb out."

Lifting his trembling body up from the metal base, Kenny slowly crawled through the door. Joe grabbed him and set him on his feet on the ground before slamming the hatch shut. Kenny's hand was gripped painfully tight, both to remind him not to screw around and as a precaution to prevent him from slipping away and escaping. The boy walked obediently next to the man and Faye followed them a few feet behind and they approached the door of an older two storey single family house painted a grey that had long faded from the elements to a pale silver color. When they reached the door Joe knocked on it three times in quick progression and then after a beat three more times with a pause of about a second after each knock. A second or two later Kenny could hear the sound of a dead bolt sliding open and a door knob lock clicking open. The door was opened inward by Eva Baker. Just the sight of his mother terrified the small child, who began to whimper pathetically.

Eva crouched in front of her son to look him in the eyes with a mirthless smile. "Hey there, sugar," she said to him, but Kenny wasn't fooled. He knew his mommy was going to hurt him soon just like the others and she didn't really like him. He stiffened noticeably and squeezed his eyes shut when she leaned in to kiss him with pasty, sticky magenta lips. The boy relaxed only after she had drawn away and returned to her full height. "You guys are late. Hurry downstairs."

"We hit heavy traffic on the parkway," Faye told her snottily. "We came as quickly as we could."

Joe, never having released his grip on Kenny's hand began to move towards the basement stairwell, expecting the boy to obediently follow. As soon as Kenny saw the door to the stairs he began to whimper louder than before and resist being pulled towards it. There was no way he could resist successfully, but he tried with all of his might; pulling back with all of his strength and trying to dig his heels in to the vinyl flooring, he screamed on top of his lungs hysterically.

"Little fucker!" Joe screamed at him. He picked Kenny up and threw him over his shoulder effortlessly. Kenny continued to kick and scream to no avail as he was forced down to the dank, damp unfinished basement. Once they were on the concrete floor and the door to the stairwell had been shut and locked Joe dropped the boy unceremoniously onto the hard floor. Kenny had so exhausted himself with his resistance that he didn't have the strength to pick himself up. He curled up into a fetal position and watched with alert eyes.

As usual the basement was empty except for a circle of five chairs around a red gymnastics mat that had been thrown in the middle right next to a steel support beam. Two more adults were already present, sitting in their chairs waiting impatiently. Eva Baker grabbed Kenny and threw him onto the mat and then proceeded to bind one of Kenny's hands to the stake using a locking plastic duct strap. The boy didn't fight anymore. He felt dazed, shocked numb with fear. His mind was trying to protect him from the trauma by causing the boy to dissociate from the world around him. He was still vaguely aware of what was happening and what was yet to happen, but he felt like he could see it happening to another little boy with blond hair and green eyes, not to him.

Joe went to a darkened area of the basement and returned with a small round table about eighteen inches in diameter and a candle, placing them in front of one of the strangers before taking his own seat between Faye and Eva. The stranger, an older male, held a hard-covered book in his lap. He lit the candle with a butane lighter and then opened the book and began to read from it in a monotone, almost chant-like manner. He read for about five minutes before closing the book and setting it on the table next to the burning candle. Kenny heard the words but they made no sense to him. His body still trembled but he was barely aware of it.

After the reading was through, the strange male stood up, walked around the circle of chairs six times in silence and then began to approach the five-year-old lying on the mat. As Kenny saw the adult approach, the sting of panic briefly made its way through the haze and he peed himself. The strange old man began to undo his pants and removed them along with his underwear. Kenny watched, frozen. He let out one small whimper as he was raped viciously but was otherwise deadened to what was happening to him, putting up no resistance. Tears began to roll down his face but there was no other expression of emotion. Once the old man was finished with him, the other four took their turns going around the circle. Kenny felt the pain and yet it failed to register in his consciousness. When they were done with him they cleared the area again and went upstairs to eat, leaving the little boy lying on the mat, bound to the stake, alone in the dark.

An indiscriminate period of time later the dissociative state Kenny was in crumbled suddenly and the little boy began to cry and cry, curling up again. His little body ached but not nearly as badly as his heart. He didn't really understand what it was that the adults had done to him, but it was the third time he had been taken to that house and had endured the torture that he knew was wrong and unnatural, but had no idea why. He stuffed his fist in his mouth and began to gnaw on it absently, finding himself being soothed by the pain _he_ had control over. After a little while the child's eyes closed and he felt into a restless, nightmare-ridden sleep.

* * *

After breakfast, Wilson had returned to their hotel room to check in with the hospital while House went with Bujold in the private investigator's car to show him where the Fromms lived and kept Kenny. They cruised past the bungalow a couple of times a few minutes apart both down the street and the back alley to take a look before parking not far from where House had sat to surveil the home.

"There are no vehicles visible on the property," Bujold commented, lifting a small pair of binoculars to his eyes. "I didn't see anything through the garage window either, though it was dark inside. It would appear they have gone for a drive."

"Yeah," the diagnostician agreed grimly, nodding. "Joe drives a pickup for work—he's a plumber, I think. They also have a blue minivan. A Dodge Caravan, probably an oh-five or oh-six."

"We'll have to wait until they get back from wherever it is they've gone," the P.I. said, lowering the binoculars and shrugging.

"Or," House said with a devious twinkle in his eye, "We could have a little look inside for DNA…."

Bujold shook his head in negation, giving his client a stern frown. "I can't be a party to anything illegal, Dr. House. I already told you that."

"Just call me House," the owner of that name said irritably. While the information the P.I. was able to obtain from his sources was definitely a boon, being tied down by Bujold's useless code of ethics was bothering him like he had something big stuck in his craw. How was strictly abiding by the law more ethical than entering the home of child abusers in search of clues that would rescue said child from pain? Laws, like rules, were meant to be broken when the situation merited it, but never more justifiably so than in the saving of another person's life.

" '…Is it lawful on the Sabbath days to do good, or to do evil? To save life or to destroy it'?" House mused softly, staring out the car window absently. 1

Bujold looked over at him quizzically. "What was that?"

"The so-called Good Book," the diagnostician answered, not bothering to look at the other man. "Christ, to the Pharisees. Smart man—too bad he was a lunatic."

The private investigator pondered that in silence. House glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

They sat in silence for about fifteen, twenty minutes, waiting for something, anything, of relevance to occur. The doctor was itching to do something more than simply sit on his ass and hope that Kenny was strong enough to hold out until they had their evidence and could snatch him out of danger. So much time had been wasted already, mostly due to his damned gimp leg. He was bored and worried, a dangerous combination in him; the inactivity was driving him crazy. His leg was beginning to complain about being cramped in the confines of the sedan for too long.

"My leg's starting to cramp. I've got an idea," House suggested casually. "I'll get out so I can stretch my legs with a little walk and you can go grab us coffee at that Starbucks we passed on the way here--my treat. Come back in, oh, say twenty minutes? That should be a long enough walk to keep my leg from cramping up on me."

House wiggled his wallet out of his rear pocket and opened it, pulling out some cash. He held it out to Bujold. Before the P.I. could comment House already had the door open and was carefully extricating himself from the car, cane in hand. He dropped the unclaimed bills onto his vacated seat.

"A walk, huh?" the other man said, looking at his client suspiciously. House knew that _he_ knew what the diagnostician had planned but this way the detective possessed plausible deniability. He could claim his precious ethics and House could pick up speed on his quest. He had a promise to make up for. He hoped he had judged the man correctly.

Without saying another word Bujold opened the glove box and pulled out a plastic package, 'dropping' it out of the open car door. When he started the car House gave him a smirk of appreciation and closed the door. The car pulled away. House bent down and picked up the small bag, stuck it in his jacket pocket and then with a three-legged limp moved down the sidewalk in the direction of the bungalow. He kept his eyes moving, taking in his environment to track who and what was where and for how long. He didn't need to draw the attention of potential witnesses for the Prosecution—_his _prosecution.

Once he reached the intersection where on one of the four corners was the Fromms' house, instead of crossing the street to it the diagnostician turned right and walked to the next crosswalk a block away, then turned left, crossed the street and headed back in the direction from which he had just walked until he reached the alley that ran behind the bungalow. He turned right into the alley, still casually on the lookout for snoopy neighbors and members of a community watch group.

He walked up the short cement driveway to the detached garage and then edged around it until he reached the fence that surrounded the backyard. There was a small gate next to the garage that wouldn't open when House pulled and pushed on it. He peered over the top and managed to see that the gate was being held shut by a simple metal binder ring. He reached over with one of his long arms and managed to reach it. After a couple of attempts with his long, nimble pianist fingers he managed to open the ring and slip it off. He pocketed the ring to replace it later, and then slowly opened the gate.

He knew from Kenny's e-mails that the Fromms had a dog and House wanted to make certain that said canine wasn't lurking somewhere ready to attack him the moment he stepped onto its territory. He slowly took a couple of steps into the overgrown yard and then whistled softly, waiting for something to come running at him. When nothing did, he closed the gate behind him but didn't secure it with the ring, just in case he had to make a rapid evacuation of the premises. The six foot high Raspberry canes planted along the fence that was shared with the neighbors hid him from view, for the most part with just the top of his head from the forehead up rising above it.

He looked around at the yard with an appraising eye. The grass from the year before was about six inches high and brown, with new spring growth beginning to green up the yard from underneath. Instead of children's toys, a swing set or a sand box one would expect to find in the backyard of a household that included a young boy, there was nothing but grass, garbage and an empty beer bottle or two covering the space. A thin pavement-block sidewalk led from the garage door to the back door of the home. House followed the sidewalk and tried the screen door which was unlocked. He then tried the inner door but it _was_ locked. There was no indication that the door possessed a deadbolt lock—no key hole—so he surmised that the only lock apparent was the lock built into the door knob. That was a good sign. He pulled the bag Bujold had dropped out of his pocket and opened it, pulling out a pair of white cotton gloves and putting them on. Using the hem of his t-shirt he wiped the doorknob clean of prints.

House couldn't help but think that it would be handy to have Foreman around right about now. He checked his pockets for something he could use to pick the lock but he didn't have anything on him but his wallet. Frowning he began to wander around the yard, eyeing the ground and everything around him for something he could use. As he looked he also checked out the basement windows for a possible unlocked access to the house. Unfortunately they were locked and had security bars. Cursing his bad luck, the diagnostician berated himself for forgetting to bring a file or screwdriver with him. Finding nothing, a thought occurred to him. He walked back to the garage and tried the door. It opened with ease.

He smiled slightly with satisfaction, remembering that a lot of older garages were built without locks on the doors, something he had discovered on a particularly boring afternoon when he was eight. He took a carefully look around to make certain that there was no one watching and then stepped quietly into the garage, shutting the door behind him. It was dim inside, but the single window allowed in enough light to allow him to see sufficiently. It was a mess of tools, hardware, car care products, a lawn mower, lawn chairs, cases of beer and poorly stacked cardboard boxes everywhere with a single empty space just big enough to park an SUV or van.

House sighed and set to work hunting for a useful tool. Five minutes later he moved a small box off of the covered worktable to find several spiders scurrying away, looking for the safety of cover again, and a key ring with two keys on it. A Grinch-like grin spread across the diagnostician's face; they were not vehicle keys but house keys. He plucked them up carefully, clenched his fist around them and then left the garage for the bungalow. Choosing one of the keys he pushed it into the key hole and smiled when it slid in smoothly. Turning it he heard the lock pop open.

Very slowly, cautiously, he opened the inner door and looked around for any sign of human or canine life. When he heard and saw nothing he gingerly stepped inside and shut the door. He found himself in the kitchen. It was small and the appliances were all an outdated almond color. There was a small dinette with four chairs near a window opposite the cabinets and sink. Despite being cluttered and disorganized the room and the items in it were fairly clean. Next to the dinette table there were two bowls sitting on a mat on the floor. A few stray pieces of dog kibble were on the mat and one of the bowls was a quarter full of water. By the size of the kibble, House figured the dog was of medium size. Not giant-sized but big enough to leave some nasty bites.

"Super," he muttered to himself, hoping that the Fromms had taken the dog along with them wherever they went. The fact that the animal hadn't come running at him the moment he entered the domicile he hoped was a good sign. Perhaps the mutt had died or been hit by a bus or was locked up in a kennel or room somewhere. He could only hope. House liked dogs, he just didn't like their teeth and the habit some of them had of sinking them into human flesh.

Trying to put that thought away for the time being, House began to look around for items in the kitchen that could possibly hold samples of DNA in them or on their surfaces, but there were no unwashed dishes, flatware, cups or glasses sitting around. He checked inside the dishwasher but it was empty. Moving to the fridge it too was devoid of anything that likely would have come into direct contact with human saliva or any other sources. It was just as well; even if he had found anything chances are they could have been cross-contaminated. Also, it would be possible to cross-reference DNA from Kenny with any samples of blood that might still remain at the hospital, but with no reference samples from Joe and Faye Fromm the best they would be able to check conclusively was the gender of the donor. He had to find samples that could be ascertained to be definitively from one specific person for identification purposes. He went on a hunt for plastic sandwich or freezer bags and quickly found a box of the latter. Taking four or five out, he replaced the box exactly where and how he found it. He knew where to check next.

The bathroom was likely the best place to obtain samples.

He walked cautiously around the bungalow, staying clear of open windows, his eyes on the lookout for any furry threat. In the small but very clean bathroom he looked immediately in the direction of the medicine cabinet and vanity. On the vanity was a toothbrush holder with three brushes. House smiled. Three people lived in the bungalow; one of the toothbrushes was a child's size and the other two were adult-sized. Being able to rule out Kenny, the chances of the adult toothbrushes being used by anyone outside the household were statistically negligible. He took each toothbrush and wet it slightly. Using one bag for each he stuck the brushes inside the bags and pressed down the bristles against the surface of the plastic bag and then tapped the bristles to release water and oral epithelial cells. He sealed each bag and replaced the brushes ast he found them.

He looked for other sources of tissue samples, opening the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. Inside he saw various bottles of prescription medications—amoxicillin, Tylenol three's, Lisinoprel (a blood pressure medication), Imovane (commonly used somnolent)—as well as over-the-counter cold and flu remedies and acetaminophen. Next to the T-threes was a disposable men's safety razor. House picked it up and checked the blades. Seeing tiny skin flakes and a piece of razor stubble he nodded to himself and threw it into one of the sealable baggies. It might be noticed as missing, but since it was partially hidden behind pill bottles, there was a chance it was not used frequently and wouldn't be missed. There was no corresponding ladies' razor in the cabinet and he closed it silently. Checking the bathtub/shower there was also no sign of a razor. He frowned. A back brush hung from a hook but he ignored that and went to check in the garbage can, a common treasure trove of biohazardous samples in any home. A quick shake of the can revealed pay dirt, so to speak. Grabbing a facial tissue from the box on the vanity he used it to retrieve the applicator from a tampon, quickly bagging the item with a hint of disgust on his face. Doctor or not, no guy liked handling things like that.

Satisfied with his finds, House winced as he straightened up and dug the heel of his hand into his ruined thigh muscle, trying to massage out a cramp.

A growl sounded behind him, coming from the doorway. House inhaled suddenly, freezing in place.

"Shit," he murmured under his breath. Wherever Fido had been sleeping, he or she had been awakened by the sound of movement in the bungalow and quickly followed his scent to the bathroom. Being an unfamiliar scent, the diagnostician became _persona non gratia_ number one.

_Show no fear_, he thought, trying to calm himself down by taking a few deep breaths. _Don't look it in the eyes—or was that __do__ look it in the eyes? Damnit! What a time to have a brain fart!_

One thing he knew for certain was not to run; he had no idea whether or not dogs were chasers but since he couldn't run worth a damn he would leave that only as a last resort. Slowly he turned around, prepared to drop everything and raise his arms to protect his face and neck should it decide to pounce. House cringed slightly when he saw that the dog was a smaller adult black and tan German Shepherd, likely a female although he wasn't about to attempt to check that out. The dog continued to growl, her ears lying flat against her head. That was definitely _not_ a good sign. The diagnostician gripped the handle of his cane tightly, prepared to swing it at her head like a Louisville Slugger if he had to, but he hoped he didn't have to engage the enemy. He'd rather negotiate a truce or find a way of retreat.

_Damnit_! He cursed silently. _Why do I keep thinking of everything in terms of a combat zone lately? I hate that shit! _His dad had related every lesson he beat into him in terms of military strategies and concepts.

"Hi there," House said softly and what he hoped was calmly to the German Shepherd. "You're a pretty bitch, aren't you? I saw that your bowl was empty? Please tell me that you just ate recently and don't have a craving for fresh meat."

The dog barked at him suddenly, causing him to jump and take a step back with his left leg.

"Don't want to talk, huh?" he said. "I'm not much for chit chat either. Look, I don't mean you any harm. I'm leaving now and everything is fine—no harm, no foul. I'm going to take a step closer to you now." He rolled his eyes at himself for talking to the canine, but really he was trying to soothe himself more than the dog. He took a step forward, holding his breath. The dog barked a couple of times but that was all. Her ears remained pinned back but she no longer growled. Instead she sniffed the air but her eyes never left him. Her body was still ready to attack.

House sighed silently. That turned out better than he had expected. Taking another deep breath, he took a step forward with his right leg and cane. The dog barked once and then whimpered, one of her ears lifting slightly.

"Does this mean your bark is worse than your bite?" he asked her and took another cautious step. Both ears perked straight up now, and she whimpered again, wagging her tail slightly. A wave of relief hit the diagnostician and a smile broke on his face. He took a couple of steps forward and the dog stood up straight, wagging her tail tentatively. He stepped out of the bathroom, and began to side-step her slowly down the short corridor towards the kitchen. The dog began to follow him, still wagging her tail. She looked like she was completely out of attack mode and House relaxed. She began to sniff his pant leg and he tentatively reached down to her. She sniffed his hand suspiciously and then, apparently liking what she smelled, licked his fingers as a gesture of peace.

House smirked and scratched her head. They were officially friends. He headed for the back door but as he passed the stairwell to the basement he paused and checked his watch. He still had ten minutes before Bujold was supposed to return with the coffee. Kenny had mentioned that he slept in the basement despite the fact that the diagnostician had counted two bedrooms on the main floor. Out of curiosity House headed down to the basement with the dog following closely behind him.

"So what should I call you?" he asked the dog. "You don't look like a Fido. I've got it. I'll call you Lisa. That's the name of my boss; she can be a bitch on occasion, too."

The dog squeezed past him on the stairs, nearly causing him to lose his footing, and beat him to the bottom.

The basement was unfinished except for a small bathroom that appeared to have been hastily assembled by people who didn't really know what they were doing. There was the typical furnace and hot water tank and an older model washer/dryer set just off the stairs. Open beams were exposed and sealed behind plastic along the outer walls there was pink fiberglass insulation stuffed between the studs. Two bare light bulbs lit the main area but were currently turned off, leaving the basement fairly dim, lit only by light streaming in a small window. There were two other windows but they were blacked out by pieces of corrugated cardboard shoved in the wells. On the bare concrete floor laid a twin-size mattress that was covered with a fitted bottom sheet and draped with a thin cotton blanket. A lumpy pillow rested at one end. That was where Kenny slept.

House felt his anger rise. That mattress on the floor was the only piece of the entire place that belonged to Kenny. There were no toys, no age-appropriate books, and only a plastic organizer tower with three small drawers to hold his meager possessions. Even in the warmth of the late morning sun outside it was cool in the basement. The diagnostician imagined that at night it was even cooler and in the winter it was cold. Kenny only had a thin, threadbare blanket to keep him warm. This was the little boy's existence. House's childhood had had its share of trauma, loneliness and sacrifice but he had never gone without and he had always had a bedroom of his own with real furniture, toys, books and warm blankets.

"Soon," he whispered. Soon Kenny would have everything he needed in a safe home with people who cared about him. The diagnostician would do whatever it took to see to it. The dog approached the mattress and began to root around it, trying to get its muzzle under it, pawing at the edges. House frowned. There was something underneath there that the animal was very eager to get at. He went to the mattress and shooed the dog away; he lifted up Kenny's 'bed' to look underneath. It looked like a small article of clothing. House used his cane to pull it out and pick it up before dropping the mattress. He looked at the article on the end of the cane. His heart began to beat hard and fast in his chest, and his grip on his cane became white-knuckled. He felt like crying. He stuffed the piece of material into the jacket pocket that wasn't holding the plastic sample bags and then made his way determinedly up the stairs as quickly as his leg would allow him.

Wasting no more time—Bujold would be back soon and he had no idea when the Fromms would return—House went to the back door, twisted the door knob to lock it and then hurried out of the bungalow, closing the door firmly behind him. He limped quickly to the garage where he replaced the key chain exactly where he found it and then got his butt off the yard, walking back to the parking spot to meet Bujold following the same roundabout route he took to get there. Instead of the Private investigator's sedan House found Wilson's Volvo sitting there with his partner waiting inside, a familiar frown of consternation on his face.

House sighed tiredly. He was busted. His limp became more pronounced the closer he got to the car. Wilson's penetrating dark eyes followed him the entire time. House opened the car door and climbed inside the shotgun position. Reluctantly he closed the door, cutting off his chance of a quick escape. He stared out the windshield, silently. He could feel Wilson's gaze burning a hole in the side of his head.

After a couple moments of silence House turned his head to look at his lover and opened his mouth to speak but Wilson raised his hand to signal him to stop.

"What exactly were you doing and what did you do with Walt?" the younger doctor asked him, his voice surprisingly calm all things considered. "Uh—and before you answer, I want the truth, not your usual brand of deflecting bullshit."

House sighed silently and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the zipper bags with the DNA samples in them, handing them over to the oncologist without a word. He wore his most contrite expression. Wilson looked at the bags quizzically and then returned his eyes to the diagnostician.

"Care to explain?"Wilson inquired, his words clipped short with barely concealed hostility.

"Not really," the older doctor quipped and then quickly added, "but I will anyway. Those are samples of the Fromms' DNA. The water is from their toothbrushes and the other items are self-explanitory. I sent Bujold for coffee while I walked off a cramp in my leg. At least that's the story and I'm pretty certain he'll stick to it."

The diagnostician readied himself to be ragged on and lectured. Instead, the oncologist nodded his head—but House could see the muscles in his jaw tightening.

"I see. May I ask you a question, Greg?"

House leaned away from him slightly and nodded hesitantly. "Sure."

A thin smile crossed Wilson's face as he nodded. "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!" the younger man yelled suddenly, nearly deafening his partner as he recoiled instinctively and bumped his head against the passenger-side window with a thump.

"No!" House shouted back, more surprised than angry, one of his hands covering the ear that had been yelled into while the other rubbed his head where he had banged it. "But I'm pretty certain I'm deaf! Jeez, James! _Nice_! I think my ear is bleeding!"

"Well at least it's bleeding in this car and not in a jail cell!" his lover retorted, lowering the volume on his voice considerably. "The Fromms could have showed up catching you inside, or a neighbor could have seen you and called the police. You could have been arrested for breaking and entering!"

"Breaking, no," he answered crankily. "The garage door was open and I found a set of spare keys for the house in there."

"Oh, well then," Wilson said sarcastically, "no problem. I can't imagine why I was concerned!"

"Me neither," House said with a smirk. He half expected Wilson to take a swing at him but all the younger man did was shake his head and sigh heavily. He handed the bags back to House who pocketed them again. The diagnostician became very somber. "Found something else."

The tone of House's voice drew his lover's attention. Wilson looked at him in concern.

"Are you alright?" he asked. House shook his head and then reached into his other pocket and brought out a loose pair of boys' underwear. The back panel and gusset were stiff with dried blood. "These were under the mattress that Kenny sleeps on in the basement."

Wilson's face paled and there was a look of utter shock and disgust. He shook his head and then wiped small beads of perspiration off of his lip with his hand. His eyes were glassy and blazing with outrage. He pounded the steering wheel in his rage. "Goddamnit, Greg! The fucking perverts! We need to get him the hell out of there now!"

"I've only been arguing that this entire time!" House growled angrily. His anger wasn't directed at his lover but at the beasts that were abusing the five-year-old. He blinked back the moisture threatening to form in his eyes. He wasn't about to break out in tears but his heart was aching terribly for Kenny. Every protective fibre of his being was screaming to rescue the boy as soon as he returned home with the scum he'd been forced to live with.

The two doctors noticed as Bujold returned, parking his car behind Wilson's. The lovers looked at each other.

"We need to tell him what you found," Wilson told the diagnostician firmly.

"I don't want to get him in trouble," House answered softly, shaking his head.

In the side mirror House saw the private investigator walking up the sidewalk towards them.

"We can claim he knew nothing about it," the oncologist told him insistently. "He went for coffee, remember?"

Blues eyes met brown ones for a brief moment of silent communication. They were interrupted by Bujold rapping on House's window. Wilson was right. The shit was about to hit the fan and the P.I. should be warned. He nodded curtly to his partner and then turned to the window, pressing the button on his door to lower it.

"Did you have a beneficial walk, House?" Bujold asked with a knowing smirk. He bent to look into the window and handed House a steaming Grande-sized coffee.

House nodded seriously and said quietly, "I discovered a treasure trove of interesting items along the way." He held up his bags of samples to give the P.I. a look.

Bujold nodded impassively. "You certainly did. I trust it was uneventful."

"I didn't encounter a soul along the way," the diagnostician assured him and then lifted the bloodied underwear just high enough for Bujold to see them. "But I did get a bit of a surprise."

Bujold closed his eyes briefly against what he saw. House put them away before the other man opened his eyes again. Bujold exhaled loudly, as if he was expelling the evil he had just seen from his body.

"You realize that the samples you gathered and the underwear can no longer be presented as evidence against them," Bujold told the diagnostician. He looked to see if anyone was watching them and then opened the rear door and climbed into the Volvo to talk more privately. "Since it was obtained illegally, it's non-admissible."

"As for the underwear, I doubt this was the only example in that house," Wilson spoke up, the corners of his mouth curved down contemptuously. "Besides, a full physical examination of Kenny will provide all of the relevant evidence that will be needed. House is right, Walt. We can't wait any longer for more evidence to show up. We have to get Kenny away from those monsters today!"

Walt set his jaw grimly and nodded in full agreement. "We need to call the police in, Gentlemen," he told the doctors. "I know a detective on the local force. I'll call him about this right away. He'll steer us in the right direction. Dear God." He seemed to lose his voice briefly and shook his head again, obviously affected by what he had seen. He cleared his throat. "I actually have some good news. While I was gone I got a call from my source at Vital Statistics. She found the marriage certificate. The Fromms were married in Montana. That state's office is sending a facsimile to Trenton and we should have it by tomorrow morning. It definitely ties Grady, Baker and Fromm to each other. The police will want to see that as soon as possible."

"Call your cop friend," House told him brusquely, his voice husky with emotion that he was finding to be next to impossible to hide. He pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly.

"I left my cell phone in my car," Bujold said and climbed out of the Volvo to return to his own car to make the call.

House lowered his hand and stared out the windshield at the small bungalow down the road. His azure eyes were sad and he frowned with worry. The diagnostician didn't usually entertain worry. He usually tried to focus on the present and deal with whatever he was faced with as it happened. This time…this time he couldn't help but fear what could be happening to Kenny at that moment and what was going to happen once the police were brought in. He didn't trust them; he wanted to take care of this his way, but House was smart enough to know that his way didn't always turn out as well as he hoped.

Wilson reached over and cupped the diagnostician's right cheek with his hand and gently turned House's face towards him. The older man smiled softly and closed his eyes, pressing his face into his lover's touch. He felt Wilson shift in his seat and brush his lips against the older man's. It was a gentle, tender kiss laced with love and the men allowed themselves to linger that way, blocking out the ugliness for a few precious moments; they took comfort in each other. When Wilson drew away he murmured an 'I love you' which brought a rare genuine grin from his partner.

"Me too," the diagnostician returned, feeling encouraged by the fact that his best friend and lover had his back. "Are you still angry at me?"

"Not if you let me call you Baby-doll for the rest of the day," the oncologist answered, grinning slyly, earning a death glare in response. Wilson chuckled briefly and then sobered. "I'm proud of you, Greg."

"For trespassing?" House asked with mock-surprise. "James Wilson I'm shocked!"

"Yeah, for that," the younger man agreed wryly. "That little thing of caring enough for a hurting little boy to go all out to help him is pretty commendable too."

"Oh, shut up!" The diagnostician told his partner, frowning crossly. "You're going to make me puke."

They sat in a comfortable silence, both watching the Fromm's bungalow, waiting for their return. About ten minutes passed before Walt Bujold was back and climbing into the backseat.

"My friend is going to talk with his Lieutenant and get back to me in a few minutes," the P.I. told them. "If the Lieutenant agrees you'll have to file a formal complaint listing your suspicions and any relevant reasons why you feel Kenny is in danger. They'll then send out a car to investigate. The hitch is the protocol is to contact CPS immediately and work in concert with them. My buddy is trying to convince his superior of the possibility that the workers involved with Kenny's case are in collusion with the Fromms and that they be replaced by complete neutrals not in any way associated with Talbot and Grady. He needs you to report to the station right away to file your complaint and provide the facsimiles we've obtained to show the connection."

"I'm not leaving here," House insisted resolutely, shaking his head, "until the Fromms return with Kenny and I'm convinced he's okay for the time being."

"I'll go with you," Wilson suggested immediately to Bujold. "That way House can stay here and keep an eye out."

The P.I. nodded in agreement with the idea. "Sounds good. We'll take my car."

"Okay," Wilson nodded. "I'll be with you in a minute or two."

Bujold, getting the hint that Wilson wanted to speak with House alone, vacated the Volvo.

Wilson gave his partner a warning look. "Promise me that you'll stay in the car no matter what. Greg, look at me! Don't risk your safety or Kenny's by confronting the Fromms on your own. I don't care what you see—call me immediately and stay the hell away from that bungalow!"

"I'm not stupid," House snapped irritably. "Give me some credit, James; trust me!"

The oncologist searched House's eyes and the older man knew his lover was trying to determine if he was being duplicitous or not. It frustrated him; he wanted to be trusted. He wasn't about to do anything that would endanger Kenny's life. However, he was careful not to promise anything else.

Nodding slowly, Wilson leaned over and kissed House quickly on the lips and then got out of the car, heading for Bujold's vehicle. House watch the P.I.'s car drive away and then continued his watch. House secretly hoped the Fromms would do something to offer his cane the opportunity to render on them a little justice of its own.

1 Quote is from The Holy Bible, The Gospel of Luke, chapter 6 verse 9 (King James Version).


	16. Chapter 16 Corpus Delicti

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** I've been having difficulty with the past few chapters lately and haven't been completely satisfied with them. I've felt they were too wordy and I'm a little concerned about this one as well. There's more action in this one and the plot advances faster so I'm hoping I will feel better about it. The first part will seem redundant but I wrote it the way I did so that we all can be refreshed on everything that has happened so far as we approach the climax.

I have to warn you that I have never been to New Jersey (Though I'd like to someday) so what I've been describing as far as locations, roads and highways is based on maps and online sources about New Jersey, Princeton and Atlantic City, thus there are probably huge errors. I apologize for any errors and inconsistencies that you who are familiar with the Garden State will undoubtedly find. Some of the smaller roads and locations are purely fictional. Likewise, I'm from Canada and I'm a little fuzzy on the way you label your highways (ie., Interstates vs. Highways, etc.). Perhaps I should write a fic sometime where our favorite couple and/or other characters find themselves in my neck of the woods for a vacation or medical conference! Anyway, on with the show!

Please remember to review!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated T** for coarse language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

**Chapter Fifteen: Corpus Delicti?**

_Definition of Corpus Delicti:__ (n) Latin. For the substantial fact that a crime has been committed and in popular crime jargon, the body of the murder victim._

They were led through the bullpen to an office at the far end of the massive room. The office was currently empty but Walt Bujold's detective-friend, a cop named Graham who looked frighteningly similar to the father of a girl James Wilson dated in high school, told them to have a seat and he'd be right back with his lieutenant. The two men sat in the chairs that rested before a large metal-based desk. The oncologist looked around at his environment and found himself feeling a little disappointed at what he saw. It didn't look anything like it looked like on TV and the movies. The building wasn't eighty years old and falling down all around them. There weren't mug-shots, wanted posters and APB printouts hung all over the walls; they were neatly attached to bulletin boards at one end of the room. Most of the detectives he saw were hard at work at their computers and on their phones, not flashing their service firearms around in pancake holsters running about in a frantic hurry to catch the bad guys. Everything was very clean and organized, not grungy, grey and cluttered. Everything looked like, well, in a word—ordinary; in two words—ordinary and boring.

A smile crossed Wilson's lips as a thought occurred to him—real life in a hospital was about the same way when compared to the medical dramas on TV—well, _normal _hospitals that didn't have eccentric, genius, misanthropic diagnosticians limping around creating havoc, that is.

"What's so amusing?" asked the private nvestigator upon seeing the expression on the oncologist's face.

"Oh, nothing much," Wilson told him, shrugging. "I was just thinking about how House can take the dull and ordinary and turn it into a circus simply by walking into a room. That's all."

"Hmm," Bujold hummed. "Funny, he strikes me as the quiet, serious type instead of the clown."

"House is more like the ringmaster—he likes to tell everybody what they should be doing and how they should be doing it because he's the only one who really knows—and usually that's true. The problem is, he tends to start all of the acts at the same time, removes the safety nets to see what happens when the trapeze artists fall and leaves it to others to work out the details while in the meantime he locks himself in the lion cage and flagellates himself with the trainer's whip." Wilson paused for a moment, frowning. He looked at Bujold. "Did any of what I just said make any sense whatsoever?"

Bujold shrugged. "Sounds like my eight year old son on a good day."

Wilson couldn't help but smile. Both men looked up when Detective Graham and a middle-aged woman carrying an overflowing file folder entered the room. Graham shut the office door while his superior went to her desk, set the file down and then approached Wilson with an extended hand. Wilson and Bujold rose from their seats.

"I'm Lt. Daniels, how do you do Mister…?"

"Doctor," the oncologist corrected her with a smile, "Wilson. Hello."

She turned to the private investigator, "And you're…?"

"Walt Bujold," he told her politely, accepting her hand and shaking it firmly. She nodded with a small smile and then went around her desk and sat down, signaling that the civilians could as well.

"Det. Graham briefed me on your situation and your petition that the department request new workers be assigned to a case of active child abuse due to collusion with the mother and foster parents," she told them, opening her file folder and then folding her hands on it. She looked at them with inquisitive brown eyes. "Perhaps you'd care to fill me in on the issue?"

Wilson and Bujold quickly exchanged looks to determine who should speak first; it was silently determined that the oncologist would.

Clearing his throat first, he said, "Back in February, my partner, Dr. House, accepted the case of a five year old child who was brought in to the ER at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital after being transferred from Atlantic City. Kenneth Baker was suffering from a variety of seemingly unrelated symptoms that the doctors here were unable to interpret. House discovered that most of Kenny's illness was a result of parental abuse and Kenny was removed from his mother's custody. As a result a restraining order stated that Eva Baker wasn't allowed within five hundred feet of her son until CPS had completed its investigation and her legal charges were cleared up. His estranged father took custody but his negligence resulted in Kenny being hospitalized yet again. Dr. House and I applied to be his foster parents but our petition was rejected because a supervising worker had a policy of placing children in more…'traditional' homes. We filed a lawsuit against CPS stating that we were rejected because we're a same-sex couple.

"Meanwhile Kenny was placed in the home of Joseph and Faye Fromm, where he remains right now. We were told he was already adjusting and it would be better for him not to be shuffled around again so Dr. House and I agreed that we wanted what was best for Kenny and dropped the suit. Not long after that Kenny contacted my partner and told him that the Fromms were hurting him. We went through the proper channels with CPS and reported Kenny's claims, but found out that absolutely nothing had been done about the matter. In concern Dr. House personally investigated the claim and found it to be true. Not only that, but he discovered that the Fromms associated socially with Eva Baker. Not trusting CPS, we hired Mr. Bujold to investigate the connection between Baker and the Fromms. He was able to ascertain that not only is Eva Baker associated with Kenny's foster parents and gaining illegal access to Kenny but in fact she is Faye Fromm's half-sister and the supervising worker who had denied our application is their mother and grandmother to Kenny. Since then we've received information that indicates Kenny is very ill and has been sexually assaulted. Obviously we don't want to file another claim with CPS until the grandmother is removed as one of the case workers involved and charges are filed. Both Dr. House and I are convinced that the child is in serious, imminent danger and needs to be removed from the Fromms' custody a.s.a.p."

Lt. Daniels had listened intently to the oncologist's speech and now was silent as she looked through the contents of the file, which included the facsimiles Bujold had obtained, for a few moments. Wilson waited nervously for her to respond.

"I'm curious about the details of Dr. House's personal investigation but we'll leave that for the time being," she told the civilians emotionlessly. "I believe Det. Graham explained to you how reports of child abuse are handled between the police and CPS so I won't bore you by repeating it. What you've told me and the proof you supplied me with is very compelling. Dr. Wilson, what is your motivation for this petition?"

Wilson hadn't expected that question and was a little nonplussed. He took a moment to formulate his answer. "Uh, I'll be honest, Lieutenant. Dr. House and I grew very fond of Kenny while he was recovering in hospital and agreed that we wanted to be the ones to care for him and possibly, should his case go that direction, adopt him. We want what's best for him and we believe we can offer that. Ultimately our goal is for Kenny to be placed in a safe, nurturing home and our hope is that we'll be chosen as that home."

Daniels met his gaze with an unreadable expression for a second or two before nodding and allowing a small smile on her face. "Thank you, Doctor," she told him. "I appreciate your honesty. Okay. I have a meeting with my Captain in twenty minutes and I'll discuss this with him and recommend that he contacts CPS with your conditions. He's the one who has to give final approval and make the call. I should have an answer in an hour to an hour and a half. He's a reasonable man and you're in luck because he's mentioned before his misgivings with the way CPS is run. No guarantees, though. You're welcome to sit out in the bullpen to wait or there's a deli across the street that's pretty good. If you make certain that we have a number to contact you at, we'll give you a shout once Captain de Baar has made his decision."

Wilson and Bujold nodded with satisfaction and rose to their feet.

"Thank you," Wilson told her simply. She nodded in acknowledgement and then Bujold and he were escorted out of her office by Graham. The oncologist sighed, relieved that the meeting was over but anxious to know what the Captain would decide to do. He pulled out his cell phone to contact House and fill him in. The diagnostician would not be pleased that they would have to wait another ninety minutes before they could act.

On the drive home Kenny was sick in the kennel and received threats of punishment when they were back at the house, but the boy barely heard what was said. He laid in his own mess, unable to move out of it. He was too tired and every movement caused him pain. Though his green eyes were shut and he appeared to be sleeping he was very much awake, every bump and pothole the van hit hurting him.

His mind drifted somewhere between reality and a hazy nether region reserved for day dreams and flashbacks. He tried to forget the images of being raped and tortured and gravitated towards what it would be like to be a normal little boy with people who were happy and liked him. He would have a real bed in a warm room where the mice didn't wake him up in the middle of the night nibbling on his toes or running across his face. He would have a bicycle and a Lego set and would play baseball and soccer with boys and girls who didn't tease him about his dirty clothes and sad face. He'd eat spaghetti and hot dogs every day and candy sometimes, too. No one would hurt him anymore and he would stop feeling sick all of the time. Most importantly he would be with Dr. H and Dr. James and they would take care of him and be nice to him. Dr. H. would read him bedtime stories and tuck him into bed and Dr. James would teach him how to bake cookies and talk to him about stuff. He wouldn't be scared and sad all of the time. It would be great.

When Kenny felt the van slow down and then heard the sound of the garage door opener he knew they were back at Joe and Faye's. He was still with the people who hurt him and scared him. His body still hurt, but his heart hurt more. He would still have to sleep with the mice. He would never see Dr. H and Dr. James again. He was too weak and dehydrated to produce tears. He kept his eyes closed, hoping that Joe would think he was asleep and wouldn't punish him.

No such luck.

He heard the hatch open and felt fresher air replace the putrid reek of his vomit.

"Aw, Fuck!" Joe yelled in disgust. "Faye, this fucking little piece of shit puked everywhere! I told you not to give him breakfast! Get your ass over here and clean him up! I'm not touching him when he's like this." Joe jabbed him hard in the shoulder but Kenny didn't even flinch. He jabbed him again, harder. "Wake up, you shit!"

Kenny couldn't even open his eyes. He felt so drowsy and all he wanted to do was go to sleep, so he did--a deep, dark, dreamless sleep.

His head bobbed heavily on his neck and each time it bobbed low enough to touch his chest House was startled awake. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't seem to keep his eyes open. It was one-thirty in the afternoon but for him it felt like it was more like one-thirty in the morning. He cursed himself under his breath and pushed himself up in his seat, trying to wake up completely. He rubbed his startling blue eyes, hoping he hadn't missed anything. Picking up a pair of binoculars, House peered towards the Fromm's bungalow down the street. It had been almost an hour since Wilson had left with Bujold with no word from him and no spotting of the Fromms, either.

House rubbed his ruined thigh absently. Where were those monsters and what was happening with Kenny? Just after thinking that, he saw a minivan turn into the alleyway behind the Fromms'. It was them. Adjusting the magnification on his binoculars, the diagnostician watched the van turn into the Fromms' garage and disappear from sight. He held his breath, a little apprehensive about seeing Kenny emerge with his foster parents from the garage. Would he be okay? Would he have more energy than the last time he saw him, or would he be sicker and frailer than before? He was oblivious to the fact that he had a vice grip on the optics he held to his eyes.

It seemed to take forever for anyone to exit the garage but when someone finally did it was Joe. He headed to the back door and unlocked it, going inside. There was still no sign of Faye or Kenny. Two minutes passed, then three. Joe emerged from the house again carrying a pail in one hand and what appeared to be rags or towels in the other. He took them into the garage and then came out again right away empty handed and returned to the bungalow. Another minute or two passed and House was becoming anxious, frustrated that he didn't know what was going on. He bit his lip unconsciously.

His cell phone rang out loudly, splitting the silence in the car and causing the diagnostician to gasp and jump in his seat high enough to bang his head on the roof. That was the second goose egg of the day for him. He spat out another curse and then answered the phone, still watching the house intently.

"Yeah, what?" he snapped, annoyed.

"Well, hello to you too!" Wilson said crossly over the connection. "What's with you? Something happen?"

"Other than being startled nearly to death? Why nothing," House replied snottily. "What's the word?"

"We don't know yet," the oncologist answered. "We met with the lieutenant as planned and she agreed with our petition but she had to run it by the captain for final approval. We should receive word in about an hour. Right now Walt and I are across the street from the precinct having lunch. You want me to bring you something when we return?"

House didn't reply, his mind still focused on Kenny. What the hell was going on in that garage?

"Greg?" Wilson said questioningly. "Greg, are you still there?"

Frowning, the older man nodded and then answered verbally, "Yeah. What did you ask me?"

"I asked you if you wanted me to bring you something for lunch when we're done here," the oncologist told him.

"Sure. Reuben, dry, with fries--."

"—and no pickle," Wilson finished for him. "No fries here. How's potato salad instead?"

From out of the garage Faye finally emerged with the pail and strode up the walkway to the back door and disappeared. Kenny was not with her. _So where was he?_

"Whatever," the diagnostician said to Wilson distractedly.

There was concern in the oncologist's voice now. "What's going on? Is something happening?"

House's heart was beating hard and fast. Something was very wrong. Kenny wasn't coming out. Something had to have happened to him. The diagnostician was ready to leap out of Wilson's car and rush over to the Fromms' garage to find out exactly what was going on.

"They're back," he told his lover with a frightened edge to his voice that wasn't lost on the latter.

"The Fromms? Have you seen Kenny? Greg?"

"Not yet," was the terse answer. Every muscle in House's body was beginning to tighten. "Look, I've got to go. Talk to you later." He hung up with the sound of Wilson's voice still coming from the earphone. His stomach began to churn and if he didn't see some sign of Kenny right away he was going to explode from the car and limp-run to that garage.

His cell phone rang again but House chose to ignore it. He knew it was Wilson likely having a panic attack because the older man had hung up on him in such a cryptic fashion. It would be nice for once if the younger man would stop worrying and put a little faith in him for once! He wasn't an idiot, after all!

The diagnostician's breath caught in his throat when he saw Joe emerge from the bungalow and head back to the garage carrying….House strained through the binoculars to identify what it was the man was carrying….

It was a green garbage bag.

House's heart leapt into his throat. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead and upper lip. Three minutes later the minivan backed out of the garage.

"Fuck!" House shouted out loud and literally jumped out of the passenger seat and, using the hood of the car for support, limped without his cane to the driver's side and climbed in. He turned the key that was still in the ignition where Wilson had left it. The Volvo roared to life. House popped the clutch and put her into gear, peeling away from the curb and into traffic. He watched as Joe turned the minivan left out of the alley onto the street.

Weaving around cars in traffic, even if it meant entering the oncoming lane to get around, House reached the same street and turned right on the red light, nearly clipping a taxi going straight through the green in front of him. He ignored the blaring horn and weaved past the taxi, picking up speed. The minivan was too far ahead and he had to catch up so he was close enough to keep track and follow the van but remain back enough to not be noticed. The diagnostician's heart pounded hard in his chest and his mind was in hyper-alert mode, his blue eyes scanning for cops and other hazards while keeping watch to be sure Joe Fromm didn't shake him.

His mind spun as he drove. Kenny had not been in the house while the Fromms had been away—that House knew for certain. The most likely scenario was that Kenny went with them wherever they went. When they arrived home and there was no sign of Kenny, the diagnostician was suspicious. When he saw the Fromms carry to and from the garage items that would be used when cleaning up something and disposing of it, he had the terrifying vision of the pail of water and rags set to work cleaning up blood and a large garbage bag containing Kenny's body for disposal. House hoped more than he had ever hoped for anything before that he was wrong but his gut told him otherwise. If he had believed in God he'd be begging him or her to save Kenny from the horrible fate the diagnostician suspected. Hell, he prayed to the nonexistent deity anyway; it was better to cover all of the bases, just in case.

The minivan was heading for the Interstate and the hell out of dodge! The diagnostician looked down at the gas gauge and then sighed in relief. The tank was three quarters full thanks to Wilson's obsession about running out of gas in the middle of nowhere _blah blah blah_. The oncologist always refilled the tank before it reached the one quarter mark; for once one of his annoying little quirks was paying off, not that he would ever admit that to Wilson in this lifetime.

House's cell phone rang again. This time he figured he had better answer it, especially since he didn't know how far out of Atlantic City Joe was going to go. One thing was certain, House was glad that they were heading away from the ocean: one great big haystack to find a needle in once it's dumped in there.

Grabbing the cell phone House answered, "Yeah?"

"What's going on?" Wilson demanded although he was making the attempt at sounding non-accusatory. "Are you alright?"

"I am," was the answer, "but Kenny's not. Damnit James, I think he's either dead or close to it and right now I'm following Fromm on highway forty eastbound to see where he plans on dumping him!"

"Oh my god," Wilson muttered despairingly. "Greg, are you sure that Kenny's dead?"

"No," House admitted, "but I suspect it enough to be following Fromm to who knows where! When the Fromms arrived home there was no sign of Kenny—then he takes a pail, rags and a green garbage bag to the van. The next thing I know he's pulling out of the garage still with no sign of Kenny anywhere and he sure as hell wasn't left at home when they were gone because I would have seen him. Get the fuck out of the way, dipshit! Learn how to drive you throwback!"

"Greg, don't take this the wrong way—I love you and I don't want you to end up as road-kill, alright!?"

"Don't worry," House retorted angrily, "I won't scratch up the fucking car!"

"I'm not worried about the car, you moron!" Wilson yelled back. "I'm worried about _you_!"

"_Don't_!" the diagnostician spat. "Stop worrying about me! I'm a big boy and I can take care of myself! If you want to do something then get a hold of that friend of Bujold's and tell him that we're on Highway forty eastbound about five miles west of the junction with I-Nine-north. I could use a little help out here. I'll call you back with an update in a few minutes. And James?"

He could hear the concern in Wilson's voice. "Yes, Greg?"

"I love you. Don't forget it." House hung up and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. _Just in case I do smash up your car and me in it,_ he added silently.

The diagnostician wasn't surprised when, as they approached Pleasantville the minivan took one of the first exits off of the main highway. He hadn't expected Fromm to go too far from home, just far enough to find a desolate place to dump…Kenny. In spite of himself his eyes misted and he gritted his teeth to keep it from going any further than that. He followed Fromm through quiet residential areas as they headed north out of town again. It was going to become difficult to keep Fromm from noticing that House was tailing him once they found themselves on quiet rural roads and byways. The diagnostician knew that he was going to fall back somewhat once traffic cleared and he didn't have to drive close enough to the minivan to keep an eye on it without losing it in a mass of vehicles. He hoped that Joe Fromm was as stupid as he was cruel but somehow he doubted it. House's luck was never that good.

Wilson got off of his cell phone and rose from the window table that he sat at in the small Jewish deli across the street from the precinct. His lunch was only half-eaten but the oncologist didn't care. He'd lost his appetite around the time House had first announced that he was going to follow Joe Fromm and that it was highly likely that Kenny was either on the verge of death or was dead. Bujold was just returning from the Men's Room.

"What's happening?" the Private Investigator asked, walking up to him.

Throwing some bills on the table Wilson headed for the door with Bujold on his heels. "Greg is in pursuit of Joe Fromm's minivan. He believes that Kenny may be dead and Fromm is looking for a place to get rid of the body. We've got to let the police know."

"Dear God," the P.I. said softly, looking grieved. "How does he know that the boy's dead?"

Wilson stood at the curb, looking for a break in traffic rather than going all the way to a crosswalk and waiting for the light. "He's not absolutely certain but he's certain enough to be pursuing Fromm all alone. It's too long to explain, but trust me—Greg's hunches are usually right." Their break came and both men jogged across the avenue and towards the entrance to the precinct. "He said he's going to need help from the police. For him to admit that he needs the police means he's going to be in over his head if he isn't already!"

After checking in with the front desk/dispatch they jogged the entire way to the detective's bullpen, nearly running into four or five individuals along the way. Det. Graham was at the coffee maker pouring himself a cup of burnt coffee from the dregs at the bottom of the pot; hearing them he looked up and immediately frowned, forsaking his drink.

"Steve," Bujold said, panting lightly, "We've got a situation brewing!"

"Alright, talk to me!" Graham told them, standing akimbo. Wilson and Bujold took turns filling the cop in on what was happening with House. Shaking his head in dismay, the detective waited until they were done their story before cursing softly and commenting, "That guy is going to get himself killed!"

Graham strode quickly to his desk and picked up the phone. He dialed an internal number and waited for the other end to pick up.

"Nuni, this is Graham. I need you to put me through to the Captain and the Lieutenant right now—it's an emergency! Yes…yes, I know they're in conference…Just fucking do it! Yeah you report me, just put me through before two people end up dead!"

His voice had gradually risen until he was nearly yelling, catching the attention of everyone else in the room.

Wilson's fists were clenched as tightly as was possible and the knots in his stomach were just as tight.

After a few moments Graham said into the phone, "Yes, Sir. My apologies for disturbing you…yes, Sir, I meant what I told Muni." The detective proceeded to explain the situation to the Captain with the civilians listening in with bated breath. A few moments of silence followed that before Graham spoke again. "Yes, Sir…got it." He hung up and looked at Wilson and Bujold. "He's sending out the troops," he told them metaphorically before grabbing his jacket and racing for the exit. Wilson and Bujold were right behind him. The oncologist would be damned if he was going to sit around the precinct and wait to be told whether his lover and best friend, and that poor little boy, were alive or dead.

"I'm coming with you!" Wilson shouted to him. "Walt, maybe you should go back to the Fromms' house, just in case Greg is wrong and the shit hits the fan there!"

"You got it!" Bujold agreed and they parted ways once they were out in the parking lot. Without waiting for permission Wilson jumped into the detective's car with Graham. He was coming along for the ride whether the cop liked it or not.

As Graham drove out of the parking lot and turned on the internal strobe lights and the siren he looked over at Wilson and warned him with a stern glare, "When we find House and Fromm, you stay in the car, no arguments. We're going to have our hands full without having to keep an eye out for another half-cocked civilian! Do you understand me?"

Wilson stared back at him, unsuccessfully hiding his anxiety. "Don't worry—I have no desire to be sent back home in a casket—I just want to make certain Greg doesn't either!"

"Get your boyfriend on the phone and find out where the hell he is now so we know where we're going."

Wilson grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and made the call; he set it on speakerphone so that Det. Graham could hear the diagnostician at the same time he did. He hoped House was true to his word and would answer the call to let them know his location. _Greg, please don't be an idiot and decide you're going to take care of this on your own! _Wilson thought as he heard the line ring for the second time…third. On the fourth ring there was an answer but the connection was bad.

"Wilson, I'm at…," House said over the crackly line. The oncologist could barely hear him and making out everything he said was next to impossible. He focused on picking out as many of the main words as he could. "…turned off of highway forty at…ville at second ex…north on county road…three-two-two…next to no signal…."

"Greg!" Wilson shouted in the phone as if that would improve the signal quality for him on the other end. "I can't make everything out! Try to tell me again where you're at!"

"…breaking up…turned off…Pleasantville…thru…east on county road three…left turn at crossroad number….past …turning into small lake…Blue Willow…hear me? Are you still there? Going down into…losing connect…boat launch…." House's line went dead as his signal became so weak that their connection was terminated.

Wilson literally growled in frustration before turning to Graham. "I lost him. Did any of what he said make sense to you?"

Graham shrugged uncertainly and then half-nodded. "I think I got part of it. If I'm right, then they turned off Highway forty at Pleasantville at the second exit. There's a road map in the glove box. Pull it out and track where I'm telling you on it. I'm going to radio in and give his directions to dispatch at the same time."

Wilson obeyed, opening the box in front of him. As Graham said there was a detailed road map inside. Taking it out, the oncologist proceeded to unfold it and find their location. Then he located Pleasantville. "The second exit is number twenty."

The detective had the mike to his mouth, relating what Wilson told him. "Yes, exit twenty at Pleasantville," Graham said, confirming. "It sounded like they headed north out of Pleasantville on County Road Three-Two-Two. We lost most of what he said until he mentioned a lake and the words "Blue Willow"."

"Copy, stand-by Delta 34," Wilson heard the dispatcher say. He was scanning the map furiously looking for any road, river, lake or location that included the words Blue Willow.

"Hey," the oncologist said suddenly, "the map legend says that there's a campground called 'Blue Willow' RV Park just on the eastern bank of Mirror Lake. It can't be more than a large pond by the look of it. If there's a campground on a lake then it'll have a boat launch at it somewhere!"

Graham glanced at him and nodded. He relayed the information to the dispatcher. "I'd estimate our ETA there as twenty minutes."

"Dispatch, Copy that Delta three-four," was the response followed by the message that the Atlantic County Sherriff's Department had dispatched two patrol cars and their estimated time of arrival was twelve minutes. Graham copied that and then hung up the mike and looked over to the civilian in the passenger seat.

"Good map reading, Doctor," the detective told him approvingly.

"Whatever," Wilson answered, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a straight line. "Let's just hope we're right and we get there before something terrible happens."


	17. Chapter 17 In Extremis

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** Hi! Decided I would update this before At The Spectra since I left it at quite a cliffy! I want to thank all of you who continue to review with good comments and encouragement! *Big smiley face* For some reason tonight FanFiction won't allow me to use *** to mark breaks to at the end of the last sentence just before a break you'll see: ------------. That's the break indicator this chapter. *sigh*

This chapter will be fairly angsty—just a warning for those of you who need to go get some tissues but I won't leave you in mourning for too long.

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated T** for coarse language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

**Chapter Fifteen: In Extremis**

_Definition of In Extremis:__ adj. from the Latin. 'Facing imminent death'._

Joe Fromm stopped the Dodge Caravan in one of the camping lots closest to the water. This time of year the RV campground was fairly empty and it was low season so he managed to gain entrance for ten dollars a day rather than the normal thirty—not that he was going to be there for an entire day. What he needed to do would only take a couple of hours, tops. As soon as he was done he was getting the hell out of there and back home.

For most of the drive he had had a feeling that he was being followed by one silver sedan that he thought he saw a couple of times a few cars behind. However, he couldn't have been certain about that and he figured he was probably just a little paranoid—with good reason—and seeing things that weren't actually there. From the time he had pulled into the campgrounds he hadn't seen any vehicle of any make, model or color follow him in and to the site he'd chosen.

It would have been better if it was evening and dark outside. It was a lot easier to draw unwanted attention in the daylight; he had considered staying at home until after sunset and then setting out, but both he and Faye couldn't stand the idea of waiting that long and risk having one of the neighbors snooping around and asking questions. It was going to be difficult enough as it was to explain away a little boy's absence without any amateur detectives sniffing around in their business and stumbling across him, so it was decided they'd have to do it right away.

He cursed their luck. The kid hadn't made a sound on the way back so how were he and Faye supposed to know that he'd vomited until they arrived home? The smell of it had only become noticeable about ten minutes from home. They had assumed Kenny was sleeping; that had been a lot more pleasant than having to listen to him sniffing and crying the entire way. However, Faye had checked and couldn't hear him breathing or detect a heartbeat. Joe had just about shit his pants when she had announced that the kid was dead. The only explanation was that Kenny had thrown up and then too weak to move had breathed it in and drowned on it. It made Joe sick to his stomach to think about. It's not that he gave a damn whether the little beast was alive or dead, but the thought of drowning on one's own puke was disgusting.

He and Faye hadn't settled on a plan and an explanation to give when the authorities came around demanding to know why Kenny hadn't come to school in days. Sure, Betty would field some of the crap, but she wasn't all-powerful. They would have to come up with something before the boy was noticed as missing. He had an idea that he thought might work. All they would have to do is call in a report to the police claiming that Kenny had run away and they had no idea where he went. After a week of searching, his 'missing persons' case would become a cold case and be filed away somewhere until some overachieving junior detective came around fifteen years from now and took an interest in finding the poor little boy. After all, foster kids were known from running away from their foster homes and disappearing. Kenny wouldn't be considered any more unusual than they did. He would simply be another soul lost to the big bad system. His face would be in the paper for a few days and then life would return to normal and everyone would soon forget that the little waif had ever existed.

With a groan, Joe stiffly climbed out of the minivan and walked to the back, opening the hatch. He hadn't tied the bag off yet for a reason. He lifted the heavy duty bag out of the van and set it on the ground; back at home he'd taken the dog kennel out of the van to make room for the bag; he took the dirty rags and old blanket that had been placed under the kennel and had been soiled with vomit and tossed them into the bag with the boy and then tied it up. He glanced around but for as far as he could see in every direction there wasn't any sign of another human being. It was perfect. He closed the hatch and then picked up the garbage bag with ease and began to carry it towards a small path that headed towards the lakefront. It was a little difficult navigating over the tree roots, fallen branches and underbrush all around him; a couple of times a rogue branch sticking out over the tiny path would puncture the green plastic but luckily it still held without tearing. It would have been a bitch if the bag had spit open and Kenny's small body, the rags and the blanket had tumbled out to the ground!

He knew he was getting ever closer to the water by the sound of water sloshing against the small pier and boat launch up ahead. Driving to the site Joe had noticed that there were no boats tied to the pier and no sign of anyone navigating the small lake so he felt reasonable reassured that he would be alone to dump the bag. Eyewitnesses were a definite no-no. He stopped a moment for breath and wiped the perspiration off of his face with his hand. It was a warm spring day, alright! After a moment he hefted the bag up again and continued on his hike to the lake. He heard what sounded like the snapping of a branch and the rustle of some leaves from somewhere behind him in the trees and stopped dead in his tracks. He remained perfectly still and listened for a few seconds in silence. When he heard similar sounds again, he turned on the spot and scanned the woods. He heard the same sounds but this time from the other direction. His heart thumped hard and fast and he felt breathless. Slowly he turned back around and jumped with a start.

A doe stood a few yards away from him, frozen in its spot, eyes and ears alerted and directed at him. He exhaled in relief, the sound of which sent the doe running away gracefully through the trees. Joe shook his head and chuckled. Oh, yes! He was paranoid, alright! He continued to pick his way to the lake. When he reached the edge of the tree line he stopped and looked up and down the shallow beach. The place was deserted. Excellent. Joe stepped out of the trees and down a slope to the rocky beach. The dock was about twenty yards away up the beach line. He made his way towards it quickly, just wanting to get the whole thing over with and get back to the minivan right away.

A cool breeze blew off the lake and into his face. The air was strong with the scent of aquatic weeds and green sludgy foam. At the pier he stopped and set the bag down at his feet. It had to be at least twenty-five, thirty feet long. He hoped that the water was reasonably deep. He didn't want the boy to be visible below the surface. The body would float, eventually, but he hoped not for a while. With a sigh, Joe picked up the garbage bag and started down the pier. -------

By the time they reached Pleasantville they were joined by three squad cars, all with lights and sirens, speeding through the streets heading north. Wilson still had the map open on his lap but he didn't need to look at it any longer. He had the route memorized. He was feeling positively nauseous now; he had tried three more times to contact House but each time he had received the prerecorded message that the number he had called was not currently in service. Either his lover was located in a spot where there was absolutely no signal strength whatsoever or he had turned his phone off. The oncologist sincerely hoped that he hadn't turned it off because then, when this adventure was over and the immediate danger had passed, Wilson would have to severely punish the man he loved for being such an incredible ass.

Graham noticed the passenger's agitation out of the corner of his eye.

"There aren't a whole lot of towers out by Mirror Lake," the detective said, trying to be encouraging to assuage Wilson's fear. "That could be why you can't reach him."

Wilson chose to ignore him. He knew that the detective was trying to be kind but Wilson didn't have the head or heart space to acknowledge it just then. He was terrified. He knew that House wouldn't stop until he was certain that Kenny was still alive or the people who killed him weren't—plain and simple. His sense of loyalty towards the people he allowed himself to love knew no end. If the diagnostician allowed himself to trust enough to love and not run away, he would protect, defend and seek justice even if it meant his own harm. The oncologist knew that without a doubt. If Kenny was still alive, House would fight whoever and whatever he had to save him. If Kenny was dead, he would do everything he was capable of to keep his murderers from escaping. Either way, the diagnostician was almost certain to put himself in harm's way. Wilson felt terrible about Kenny—but he would be absolutely devastated if anything happened to his lover.

"How much of a hero is your boyfriend, Doctor?" Graham asked him. "Would he actually confront Fromm head on or would he sit back, keep an eye on him and wait for the police to take care of catching the bad guy?"

Wilson turned his head to look at the cop, frowning in irritation. "Do you think I'd be freaking out here if Greg was the type to sit back and wait for somebody else to arrive and save the day? He's convinced that Joe Fromm has either killed Kenny and is going to dump his body somewhere—in which case he'll make certain that the asshole doesn't get away but instead make him wish he hadn't been born—or Kenny is still alive but will be dead soon—in which case he'll sacrifice himself, if necessary, to prevent that from happening. He's not a 'hero' per se, but when he loves someone, he tends to put his own well-being after that of that person. It's one of his traits that I both love and hate the most."

Graham shook his head and was silent for a moment before responding, "It's a trait that's going to end up getting him killed one of these days…and one that reminds me of my late father. That kind of loyalty is hard to find this day and age."

"I know," Wilson said, nodding. He stared out the windshield at the road ahead. He knew that he had failed in that area many times in his life; but he had made the decision after walking away from the diagnostician after Amber's death, and then returning after John House's funeral, that he would never walk away from Gregory House again. He wanted to learn from him how to possess that noble trait to a level he'd never known before.

"How long now?" the oncologist asked apprehensively.

"About five minutes at this rate," Graham told him for about the third time since they had turned off into Pleasantville. Wilson knew the detective was doing his best to be patient with the worried civilian but the movement of the muscles in his jaw betrayed his frustration.

"Sorry," the oncologist said sheepishly.

A soft smile tugged at Graham's mouth. "It's alright. If it was my wife out there, I'd probably be very much like you are. Don't anticipate disaster until it's actually there—it'll drive you around the bend."

"Too late," Wilson murmured grimly, returning his gaze to the world outside his window. ---------

He had parked the Volvo along the other end of the site loop behind the shower house/bathrooms where it was less likely to be spotted by his prey. When The Dodge Caravan had turned into the campgrounds House had held back until he figured it had passed through the pay gate and had continued on to the site loops before turning in himself, handing over the fee—it didn't matter if you were going to be staying five minutes or five days you still had to pay—and following. Since it was the low season, three of the four loops of sites were closed and wouldn't be reopened for at least another couple of months. That had made tracking the minivan again a lot easier. The remaining road running along the loop was a one way; House had driven in the exit, figuring that Joe Fromm would have taken the entrance because he'd had no reason not to and that direction would have brought him closer to the lakefront sooner than the other. Occasionally, through the breaks in the brush that surrounded each site House had been able to see all the way over to the other end of the loop. When the Volvo had driven slowly past the facility building he had seen an artificially cleared path that cut clear across the brush separating the ends of the loop so that campers from either end could easily access the toilets and pay showers. Through that path he had been able to see clearly that the minivan parked in one of the sites. Quickly, House had stopped the car and had backed up and parked it along the road there to hide it behind the building.

The diagnostician had climbed out of the car and shut the door as quietly as was possible, still cringing at the sound of it; it had sounded so much louder than it truly had been due to the stillness and quiet of the campground. There had been the background noise of the breeze blowing through the new leaves emerging from the trees and the scratching of small forest creatures—mostly squirrels, mice and the odd chipmunk—as they moved along the forest floor and up and down the trees, but none of that was loud enough to drown out the sound of metal catching against metal. He had surveyed the landscape, in particular the natural pathways through the trees and bushes leading across to the other side of the loop. The manmade path had been roughly paved with asphalt and was smooth enough for him to walk along in relative safety with his bad leg and cane; it was too wide open, however, and would have left him exposed and visible to the driver of the minivan. The best bet for covert movement had been the natural paths but they had been rife with hazards that would easily trip House up and make it pretty much impossible for him to move.

Standing behind the building, House had considered his options while watching Fromm's movements. The monster had remained in his van for several minutes before climbing out; he probably had been thinking out his next move or steeling himself for the deed he'd driven there to complete. The diagnostician hadn't cared why; he simply had been relieved to have a few of those minutes to think out his next steps as well. To be able to do that he'd had to force out of his mind any thoughts of the body of the little boy in that van which would soon be disposed of as garbage buried in a shallow grave in the forest floor or in a watery grave along the lake floor—that is, until his body began to decompose, its body cavities filled with gases expelled by the bacteria and parasites consuming it, and the corpse became buoyant and began to float (unless Fromm had the presence of mind to weigh it down somehow). It had been hard not to think about Kenny; the incredible feelings of loss had been so painful and strong. Wilson had been right—House had grown to love the boy.

He had considered the idea of walking along the edge of the road towards the minivan, staying as close to the trees as possible for cover and approaching from behind. It hadn't been an ideal possibility but at least it had offered the advantage of not being completely in the open and visible until the last few seconds without disabling him more than he already was. The second consideration, however, had been the one that had had the greatest chance of success for a cripple like him. He had decided to wait to see which method of disposal Fromm chose; if he headed for the water, then House would pull out of the loop and drive towards the vehicle access to the pier and boat launch—the only such place along the lake where a person could access water deep enough to dump a body into without a boat and not have it be discovered right away. If the murderer decided to go deeper into the forest to bury Kenny's body in some secluded spot, then House would wait until Fromm entered the trees, then 'hie' himself along the manmade path to the minivan and lie in wait to ambush him when he returned. Hopefully, by then, the police would have arrived to keep him from killing the beast and find and dig up the boy's corpse.

So the diagnostician stood behind the facility building, peering around a corner of it, watching Fromm's movements. His ruined thigh was killing him, but he was so focused on the situation at hand that he was able to ignore it enough to keep going. The muscles in his body stiffened when the driver's side door opened and Joe Fromm climbed out. The man pulled his sliding pants up to his waist again and then went around to the back of the minivan. House's stomach flipped as he watched him open the hatchback door to the van and then reach inside. He lifted something out and placed it at his feet on the ground but it was hidden behind the van and the diagnostician couldn't tell what it was. The beast next rummaged around in the back and pulled out a few other indistinguishable items and then put them down towards his feet. It appeared like he was stuffing the items into the larger item. Fromm shut the hatch and then lifted the combination into his arms and carried it around the van into view.

It was the green garbage back and from the way Fromm carried it and the shape that it was House knew what was inside and he nearly threw up. Seeing the body in the bag suddenly made it too real. He swallowed hard and set his jaw against the urge to cry. House wished he could dull the harsh emotions he was experiencing with drugs. He longed for the sweet numbness and freedom from hurt it provided, even if it was only temporary in nature.

Fromm continued to walk with the bag towards the trees, but instead of heading in the direction of the thickest part of the forest, he headed down a path that wound in the direction of the lake.

House had his answer. He limped his way back to the Volvo as fast as he could move. Throwing the cane in first, House then jumped into the car and started the car. He put the pedal to the metal, racing around the loop and out again, heading towards the entrance of the campground. Just before the exit the diagnostician turned the car down the access road to the boat launch. He tried to focus on the sound of the gravel as it was picked up by the tires and struck the car's undercarriage instead of thinking about the real possibility that Fromm could be armed and might have no problem with leaving a bullet in the diagnostician's brain.

The road opened up and emptied out onto the packed ground along the lakefront designed to allow for vehicles pulling boat-laden trailers to approach the launch just a hundred feet ahead. He hit the brake until the car had slowed to a crawl; he wanted to make as little noise from that point on in hopes he could still catch Fromm unawares. If his memory served him right, the access road emptied onto the beach less than thirty feet or so from the pier. House parked the car along the side of the road just out of the line of sight from the pier and launch. He climbed out of the Volvo again as silently if not more so than back at the camping loop. This time he didn't try to close the door completely but instead just closed it without allowing it to make contact and latch. He stood still for a moment, gripping his cane in both hands and took a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself and clear his head. He couldn't afford to allow himself to go off on Fromm half-cocked fueled by wanton rage. He had to act quickly and precisely; that way he could fully appreciate every sensation of beating the hell out of the beast. He would make certain that Fromm was unable to rape another child ever again!

He began to limp down the rest of the length of road left between him and the beach; for a cripple he moved very stealthily. Just before he became visible from the pier House stopped and leaned forward to peek past the tree line, holding his breath. He could feel the rapidity of his pulse in his neck and chest. In azure blue eyes his pupils dilated like a panther's as he focused on his intended prey.

Joe Fromm stood at the near end of the pier; the garbage bag containing the remains of Kenny Baker sat at his feet tied shut into a knot. He faced the small body of water with his back three-quarters turned towards the diagnostician.

House stepped out of the protection of cover just as Fromm picked up the garbage bag again and stepped onto the pier. At first they matched each other, step for step, but House began to advance on him much more quickly than he did when the monster approached the end of the pier. He couldn't allow Kenny's body be dumped like refuse a couple of dozen feet deep in the murky lake. The body deserved the dignity of a decent burial. House had a flashback to the kindergarten teacher whom had been his patient years ago, how she had wanted to stop treatment and be allowed to die in dignity. Trying to convince her not to give up he had told her, 'You got to live with dignity, not die with it!' Rebecca—yes, that had been her name—had kept going and was cured of the tapeworms that had spread to her brain and were killing her. 1 Kenny's life had been far too short, but the boy had fought twice to come back from the brink of death with a dignity many adults never possessed. He deserved a dignified interment to wrap up his ill-fated life.

The diagnostician was only a dozen of feet behind Fromm but the other man seemed completely oblivious to his presence. House picked up his cane in both hands again, hobbling painfully forward without it. He lifted it up above his head like a club, tensing up in preparation to swing.

A board beneath House's left foot creaked when he put his weight on it. Fromm froze and spun around, still holding the bag, to see the taller man with blazingly angry eyes and weapon swinging it down at him with lightening speed! Joe Fromm tried to step aside to duck the cane and lost grip on the bag which fell to the pier and then rolled over the side into the lake; House's cane struck a glancing blow to the shorter man's head. In the background the sound of the cavalry charging in to the rescue grew increasingly louder with each cycle of the sirens but neither man on the pier noticed. Fromm flailed out with his arms and grabbed the cane in his effort not to fall into the lake. In instant reaction the diagnostician drew back his right arm and then smashed his fist into Fromm's face. The sound of bones crunching and the sight of brilliant crimson blood and teeth flowing out of his nose and mouth told House that x had marked its spot. Both men still gripped the cane so when Fromm reeled backwards from the punch he pulled House down with him and they crashed onto the pier with the sound of grunts and groans.

House pulled himself up off of the other man enough to begin to pummel him mercilessly with his fists to the face. There were even more bones and teeth smashed and blood sprayed up into his face from the beast every time the doctor's fists were drawn back in preparation of flying at him again. House could hear the shouts of police telling him to freeze, to stop but the words didn't register in his brain. It was the sound of huge air bubbles coming up to and breaking at the surface of the lake water that stopped his attack.

The bag. Kenny!

Without another thought the diagnostician forced himself up to his feet with a scream of pain and sheer force of will. He glimpsed the face of Wilson as the oncologist ran up the pier towards him. House didn't wait but threw himself off of the pier towards the sinking garbage bag. He felt the tangles of weeds pulling at him, threatening to trap him as he dove through the dark, murky water in pursuit of the body. He wasn't certain how far down he had to go to reach and grab the bag but it felt like fathoms. His eyes were barely open a crack, just enough to see the nearly invisible edges of the body, enough to grab onto it before he began to kick with his one good leg and pull through the water with his one free arm towards the surface again.

House had been a good swimmer as a boy but age and the lack of the use of two appendages made his attempts at swimming clumsy at best. However, he managed to reach the top and emerge out of the water with the bag. Coughing and spitting he grabbed the pier with his free hand and shouted to the nearest cop looking down at him to grab the bag. Once the body was retrieved and his right hand was freed the diagnostician grabbed the pier with both hands and used his upper body strength to hoist himself out of the lake. A couple of pairs of hands helped him in the process.

In the meantime Wilson had torn the bag open and pulled the little boy into a semi-embrace. Even though he knew it was probably pointless to do so the oncologist felt for a pulse in the boy's neck and put his ear to his chest.

"He's still alive!" he shouted and immediately laid the boy onto the pier, and began to work at draining as much fluid from Kenny's lungs as he could before beginning to breathe for the child.

House, still waterlogged and coughing up a lung, immediately came to the moment he heard his lover's declaration. He scurried over to Wilson's side, checking for the pulse again. It was oh so weak that it was almost imperceptible but it _was_ there. He didn't allow himself the luxury of so much as a smile but instead was shouting for the two teams of Pleasantville paramedics who had been holding back until the police had the situation under control and gave them the all clear. Wilson picked up Kenny and rose to his feet, running the boy towards the paramedics as they came running towards him.

Feeling something lightly thwack his back, House looked up to see a plainclothes cop standing over him, holding his cane out to him. House grabbed at it and then without accepting the offer of help to his feet the cop hauled him up anyway. House jerked his arm away indignantly and then hurried as quickly as he could carry himself with his ruined thigh towards Wilson and the paramedics. His entire body protested now and he was still gasping and coughing when he caught up. By the time he got there Kenny had been placed on a stretcher and was being stuck with leads to his small, limp body. They were pushing him quickly towards the back of an ambulance; one paramedic placed a mask over Kenny's face and began to bag him with air as he was lifted into the back of the emergency vehicle.

"We can only take one of you," the lead paramedic told the two doctors.

"You go with him," Wilson told House and the diagnostician didn't argue. "I'll be right behind you!" the oncologist assured him.

Once the ambulance was in motion House grabbed a stethoscope from around the lead paramedic's neck, telling him, "I'm a doctor."

The paramedic didn't question the statement but set to work starting an IV of saline into Kenny's arm. House listened to Kenny's chest sounds briefly before removing the stethoscope from his ears.

"I'm going to intubate him," he told the two other men on the other side of the stretcher. The authoritative tone of his voice left no room for argument. The second worker began to pull out the necessary equipment for the diagnostician who quickly and efficiently made quick work of inserting the breathing tube. The paramedic attached a bag and began to compress air into the tube and down into the boy's lungs. House glanced at the cardiac monitor that had been attached to the leads on Kenny's body with wires. The child was bradycardic; House wanted to see a stronger, faster heartbeat than he saw.

"B.P. is ninety-one over sixty-five, temp is ninety-eight point one degrees Fahrenheit," the lead paramedic told House as he was scribbling it down on the chart he'd started.

"Let's bundle him in blankets to stave off hypothermia," House told them. The lead paramedic went to an overhead panel and pulled out a thermal blanket. House took it from him and wrapped Kenny up himself, acting quickly but gently. He ignored the stares he received at his tenderness towards the little boy. If he could have he would have scooped up Kenny into his arms and cuddled him the rest of the way to the hospital, but that wasn't feasible. Instead he'd settle with holding both of the five-year-old's hands in one of his own while cupping his cheek with the other one.

After a minute or so the lead paramedic looked over to the doctor and asked softly, "Is he your kid?" He had found a blanket for the soaking wet diagnostician as well.

House didn't tear his eyes away from Kenny's pale face. He barely noticed the blanket being wrapped around his shoulders. "Not yet," he whispered softly.

_Soon_, he added under his breath.

1 House M.D. Season 1, Episode 1 "Pilot".


	18. Chapter 18 In Loco Parentis

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** A short chapter but hopefully a good one. Sorry it took me so long to update. For some reason I found this chapter particularly challenging to write. Let me know what you think.

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated T** for coarse language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

**Chapter Fifteen: In Loco Parentis**

When Dr. James Wilson arrived at the regional trauma center in Atlantic City he parked his car as closely to the Emergency room doors as he could and sprinted inside. He went immediately to the triage desk, apologetically pushing past a lineup of people waiting to be put on the list to be seen. He received several dirty looks which he chose to ignore; one particularly put out construction worker punctuated his displeasure with his middle finger in the doctor's face. Wilson wished he were back at PPTH where he would be given immediate and unquestioned access behind the barrier; he had no hospital privileges or clout here.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," the oncologist told the graying middle-aged trauma nurse sitting behind a safety glass window at the triage desk. "My name is Dr. James Wilson. My partner and the five-year-old boy with him were just brought in by ambulance. I'd like to see them if I could?"

"Your what?" she asked him in a nasally voice loudly enough for everyone in the packed waiting room to hear.

"My life partner," Wilson clarified for her, keeping his voice at a moderate volume. "His name is Dr. Gregory House and the boy he rode in with is Kenneth Baker."

The nurse frowned at him as she looked to her computer monitor. She scrolled down a page and then found the names he'd mentioned. She nodded and then looked back at him. "So this Dr. House is your boyfriend?" Again her voice carried to the far corners of the waiting room. Wilson noticed several sets of eyes in the lineup boring into him. He set his jaw and straightened up. He was proud of his relationship with House and those who were looking at him in disgust or gawking at him like a circus curiosity could just go to hell!

"That's right," Wilson told her with a nod. "I'm listed as his next of kin and I hold his medical proxy."

Before he could say anything more the young woman standing behind him said, annoyed, "Look, lady, that's his common-law in there, okay? He's family—let him through already so the rest of us can check in!"

The nurse glared at her but then pressed the release button for the lock on the door of the admittance. Wilson pulled it open and then looked at the young woman and mouthed a thank you. She nodded with a hint of a smile and then advanced to the window.

The oncologist went to the first nurse he saw and introduced himself to her, asking for directions to House and Kenny. She led him to the trauma room Kenny had been taken to. When he arrived he saw the ER staff working over Kenny to stabilize him from his near-drowning experience and whatever else it was that had made him so weak and sick in the first place. House stood back from the end of the treatment table a few feet but watched every action each doctor and nurse made in their treatment of the boy. The diagnostician himself had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The clothes he wore were still wet from his plunge into the lake to rescue Kenny. His shorn hair was still plastered to his scalp and dripped down the side of his face and he shivered lightly.

"Greg," Wilson said to her lover as he walked up to him. He put an arm around the older man's wet waist and pressed a kiss on his lips before House could return his greeting. "I got here as quickly as I could. How's he doing?"

"I had to intubate Kenny in the 'bus' on the way here," House replied tiredly. He looked wearier than Wilson had seen him in quite some time. The strain around his azure eyes spoke of the considerable amount of pain he was in.

"Just after we arrived," the diagnostician continued his voice low and gravelly, "he had a seizure, bit down on his breathing tube. He was given Phenytoin and the seizures have settled. He was mildly hypothermic so they're going to wrap him up as soon as they've completed a cursory check for other trauma. I heard the attending call for a mobile x-ray. I got the riot act and was threatened by that fat nurse down the hall there to calm down, back away and allow them to do their jobs without telling them what to do constantly or she'd make me."

"What? No!" Wilson responded in mock surprise. "I can't imagine why they would think you would behave that way."

"Shut up," the older man snarled grumpily, glaring out of the corners of his eyes at his lover.

Wilson didn't bother trying to hide his smirk. He quickly sobered, however, turning to House with a concerned, appraising eye. He caught a glimpse of the diagnostician's hands and immediately grabbed them from where House was stubbornly trying to hide them in the blanket. They were cut up and bloody around the knuckles; there was also considerable bruising and some swelling as well.

"You should have somebody here take a look at them and dress them," Wilson told him firmly. "You did that amount of damage punching Fromm?"

Shrugging, House muttered, "His teeth were sharp when I knocked them out." His eyes remained transfixed on the small boy being taken care of by the trauma staff.

The oncologist nodded without comment. Just before he had left the pier with Detective Graham to retrieve his Volvo he heard the paramedics tending to Joe Fromm say that he was in respiratory distress. He decided not to tell his lover that for the time being.

"I can't believe how calm you are right now," Wilson told him incredulously. "Normally you would be in there leading the team! You'd be grousing about what idiots they are! Are you sure you're okay?"

When the diagnostician didn't answer right away, his lover took him by both elbows and turned him so that they were face to face. The look of sorrow and fear that was so blatantly displayed on his face answered his question for him.

"Talk to me," Wilson said softly, his brown eyes searching out and finding House's blues. "You need to talk about what's bothering you."

"So I can be psychoanalyzed, Dr. Pseudo-Freud?" House mumbled. "No thanks."

"No," the oncologist responded, shaking his head. "Because…because I care." He sighed, releasing his grip on his lover's arms. He wondered if House would ever truly trust him enough to open up to him. Didn't he know that what hurt him hurt the oncologist, too? Seeing him hurting both physically and emotionally wore at Wilson's heart. He tried a different tack, uncertain whether or not this would work.

"When I saw Kenny after he was removed from the bag I was certain he was dead," Wilson said quietly, honestly, also watching Kenny rather than his partner. "It scared the hell out of me."

House said nothing to that but peripherally the younger man could see him shift slightly on his feet and frown more deeply.

"I watched my best friend drown when I was thirteen," the oncologist continued. He swallowed hard as he spoke about the long-hidden memory that flashed through his mind. "It was a week before my Bar-Mitzvah. I had gone along with his family on a weekend trip to the beach. We'd been warned about strong riptides and powerful waves that day but we were both strong swimmers so we went out too far. Like typical teens we had figured we were immortal. I'd always been more cautious than he was, though; I had nearly been sucked out by a current and I'd decided I wanted to go more shallow. He had called me a girl and had refused to come in; I'd known that I couldn't leave him alone; I'd had it drilled into me the idea of the buddy system. I'd then been hit by a particularly powerful wave and had sucked in a lungful of water. I'd managed to get to the surface but I was already drowning. I'd seen Aaron go under as I was coughing and sputtering and trying desperately to keep afloat. He'd not come back up. Then I went down again. The next thing I remember I was in an ambulance with Aaron's uncle. I didn't learn that he was dead for two more days; my parents told me. We postponed my Bar-mitzvah because I simply couldn't…." His voice trailed off and he swallowed hard again to keep himself from sobbing. "Kenny brought that all back." He sighed. Subconsciously he had begun to hug himself.

He felt House place a comforting hand on his back and begin to rub circles. The oncologist smiled a small, sad smile, appreciating the reassuring touch from his lover who was rarely demonstrative of his care in public.

"I'm sorry you went through that. I was scared, too," the diagnostician told him sotto voce, his eyes almost shyly meeting Wilson's briefly before returning to Kenny. It was a huge admission for a man who usually kept his feelings to himself, even from the people closest to him. Wilson smiled. It wasn't much, but at least House had admitted his feelings…more than what the oncologist had actually expected to get. Baby steps….

Both men alerted as the ER Attending walked out of the trauma room towards them.

"I'm Dr. Hazelton," he introduced himself with a nod to them. He looked at House. "I understand you rode in with Kenny? Are you his father?"

House shook his head. "No. Kenny is a ward of the State. I pulled him out of the lake. It was his foster father who dumped him there, thinking he was dead."

"I see," Hazelton said, frowning slightly, debating whether or not it was legal and ethical to tell them anything more."

"Dr. House was his physician in Princeton," Wilson spoke up quickly. "Kenny told him about the abuse and neglect he was receiving from his foster parents."

A look of recognition crossed the Attending's face as he nodded. "I see. So you're Dr. _Gregory _House. It's an honor to meet you." He looked inquiringly at the oncologist.

"I'm Dr. James Wilson, Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro," Wilson answered his unspoken question. I'm Dr. House's frie--."

"Lover," House cut him off in a matter-of-fact manner. "Look, his CPS workers were involved in his abuse and until a new worker is assigned, we're all he's got here. Tell me his current condition or I'll march over there and examine him myself!"

"Greg…." Wilson whispered, knowing that his partner would simply ignore him.

Hazelton frowned at the harshness House displayed but said nothing about it. "He was mildly hypothermic when he got here—his core temp was ninety-seven-four so the nurses are giving him a unit of warmed saline and wrapping him until his temp is up and remains stable. He's also significantly dehydrated and undernourished, so he's receiving fluids including glucose and when he's a little stronger if he needs to remain intubated we'll insert a feeding tube and start putting some meat back on his bones.

"The near-drowning has resulted in pulmonary edema in both lungs and we're watching him closely for ARDS. 1 I have radiology coming right away to do a lung panel. We're also running a standard CBC and also screening for infection. His ECG looks good and as we speak we're running an EEG. If we see anything significant on the film then I'll send him for a CT scan to confirm. As you know he was given Phenytoin for seizures and his hasn't had a reoccurrence, which is good. He'll be admitted, of course, and will be taken to ICU where we'll continue to observe him closely and treat him supportively. He'll have to remain on the ventilator and supplemental oxygen for a while yet.

"He's in and out of consciousness and responding well to stimuli. In fact, I'm a little concerned by the fact that he appears to have recovered from abdominal surgery recently and when his belly was palpated he reacted in pain. There was some rigidity detected so when radiology is here I'm going to have films taken of his abdomen as well, but so far his blood pressure has improved, likely due to the IV fluids."

"Kenny underwent surgery twice for splenic rupture," House informed him, "resulting from parental abuse and neglect. He also underwent treatment for _C. perfingens_ infection and told me that in the past month he's been bitten both by a dog and by house mice; he was made to sleep on a mattress thrown on the basement floor." House sighed before adding, "We have reason to believe that he's been sexually assaulted as well."

"Yes, that observation of assault was made; a rape kit was completed. Thank you for telling me that," Hazelton told House sincerely. "You have no idea how many patients come in who hold out information on their histories which only makes my job twice as hard."

"I never encounter that," House replied sarcastically. "My patients _never_ lie or keep secrets. Contact Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital for his file and history."

"How soon before we can see him?" Wilson asked quickly, glaring at the diagnostian.

"If you go right now," the ER Attending answered, "you can have a few minutes with him before Radiology arrives. Otherwise, barring complications, I suspect he'll be settled in ICU in about an hour."

"Thanks," Wilson said for both House and him.

"Yeah, thanks," House murmured, surprising the oncologist. Hazelton nodded and went on his way to the next trauma in line. House took Wilson's hand and they entered the trauma room. The younger man could feel him trembling slightly. He pretended not to notice. Fleetingly he wondered if this was how his parents felt when they approached his bed after his near-drowning. It sucked.

Kenny Baker lay with his eyes closed wrapped up in a thermal blanket. An IV line ran from the regulator box next to his bed to his small arm partially hidden by the blanket. He was still intubated and on a ventilator which was breathing for him seventy-five percent of the time. Wilson hadn't noticed it before but now he saw a line of small, ovular purple bruises along his jaw-line—bruises likely left behind by brutal hands trying to keep his head still. House hadn't been exaggerating about how skinny the child was; he was little more than skin and bones. His skin held a sickly grey cast to it, another indication of malnourishment. The Fromms couldn't have been feeding him much at all; likely just enough to keep him alive.

A nurse looked up at the men and smiled softly, continuing to work around them without complaint. She looked at House and said softly, "He responds to voices and small verbal commands."

House looked up at her and nodded, with no snarky response or irritation. Holding one of Kenny's hands he began to speak to him. The oncologist watched his lover intensely; he loved this side of the man.

"Kenny, can you hear me? It's Dr. H and Dr. Wilson is here with me."

Two dull green eyes fluttered open and quickly met House's gaze and held it. They looked so…old. Wilson didn't want to begin to contemplate what those eyes must have witnessed in his brief life.

"Do you feel me holding your hand?" the older man asked. "Squeeze my hand if you can."

It took a few seconds but the child weakly clasped his hand for a second or two before releasing it again.

"Good job," House told him with a wink. "You'll be arm wrestling in no time with that grip."

Kenny blinked a couple of times and Wilson thought he saw a corner of his mouth turn up before his eyes fluttered closed. His heart rate indicated that he was sleeping lightly. The diagnostician turned to his lover and smiled slightly, looking a great deal more relaxed than he had minutes before.

"Do you think there'd be a copy of _Horton Hears a Who?_ laying around this place somewhere?"

Wilson smiled in response and said, "If not, we'll _buy _one!"

The arrival of the portable X-ray machine signaled the end of their visit with the child, for now.

As they left the trauma room they ran into the same nurse. Wilson looked at her identification badge: Sandra. She held a set of clean hospital scrubs, a towel and a sample-sized bottle of body wash which she placed into House's hands saying, "You can use the shower down the corridor to your right." Without waiting for a response she joined the X-ray techs in the trauma room. The oncologist could tell by the look on House's face that he was impressed in spite of himself.

"While you shower," the younger man told him, "I'll make a couple of calls and then go on a hunt for Dr. Seuss."

"You could join me," House told him, wagging his eyebrows.

"If you behave we can look into that later at the hotel," was the response followed by a lingering kiss on the older man's lips.

The diagnostician pouted, saying, "Party pooper. I'll meet you in the cafeteria in twenty minutes, if this place has one. I missed lunch. Guess who's buying."

Wilson shook his head and sighed, watching his partner limp away. He made his way towards the waiting room and then stepped outside of the hospital to use his cell phone to call Dr. Nolan. The phone picked up on the first ring; it was the psychiatrist himself who answered.

"Dr. Darryl Nolan speaking."

"Hi, it's James Wilson," the oncologist told him. "I thought I'd update you on what's happening."

"Is Greg alright?" Nolan asked.

"He's fine," Wilson assured him and then summarized for him what had gone down since he'd called last. Nolan listened in silence until the oncologist finished his account. "Right now Greg is taking a shower while we wait for Kenny to be transferred to ICU."

"Thank you for letting me know," the psychiatrist told him. "Tell Greg to call me himself sometime today yet. How is his overall mood?"

"Much better now that Kenny is out of that house," was the answer. "He's still worried about his health but doing much better."

"Good."

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

House was showered and dressed in the scrubs, which fit him perfectly, in ten minutes. He carried his wet clothes and the towel to the nursing station where he obtained a plastic garment bag and returned the towel. His hands were still bruised and slightly swollen, especially the right one but the bleeding had stopped and scabs were already forming over the small cuts and abrasions. Sandra returned to the station and seeing House's hands offered to dress them but he declined; it wasn't necessary.

"Does this place have somewhere I can get a bite to eat?" he inquired. House could feel his stomach grumbling and wondered if anyone else could hear it. He wasn't keen on cafeteria food but he wasn't interested in leaving the hospital just yet. He wanted to sit with Kenny for a while in ICU and speak with whoever it was CPS sent this time for Kenny. He was going to make damned sure the new worker understood that she or he had better have Kenny's best in mind or they'd have to deal with him. He also wanted to make it clear in no uncertain terms that Kenny was going to come to live with Wilson and him when he was released from hospital. The child would be placed with some other foster home over his dead body.

Sandra gave him directions to the cafeteria and warned him against the soup of the day. "They call it Catch-All soup. Basically what they would ordinarily discard they dump into a tomato soup base. Stick to the short order menu."

House nodded, "Thanks for the heads-up."

He limped his way in the direction of the said cafeteria; his leg ached but the muscle had loosened somewhat in the hot shower—not as well as it would have in a hot bath, but it was better than nothing. He was just leaving Emergency when he saw the same detective Wilson had arrived at the lake with. With him was a thirtyish African-American male wearing a grey shirt with no tie, a grayish blue blazer and navy corduroys. House approached them quickly.

"Detective," he said, catching the cop's attention. Recognizing him, the detective nodded. The stranger also looked up at him.

"Dr. House," he said in greeting, "I'm Detective Graham. This is Drew Putnam. He's the replacement worker that has been assigned to Kenneth Baker."

House looked Putnam in the eye, quickly scrutinizing him. The social worker extended his hand to the diagnostician who stared at it for a moment before taking it and shaking it briefly.

"I understand you're the outcry witness," Putnam said. "You were the first person to whom Kenny reported that he was being abused. You also reported that Kenny told you he was being mistreated by his foster parents, didn't you?"

"My partner and I," the diagnostician acknowledged. "We only learned later that the supervising worker in the case was Grandmother-dearest. I won't stand by and watch that child be shuffled to yet another lousy foster home and get lost in the system again."

Nodding Putnam told him agreeably, "Good, I'm glad to hear it. I perused his file as soon as I received it this afternoon. Since your partner and you were selected to foster him before this disaster took place I have no problem with him going home with you following his recovery. In fact, I was hoping to take a few minutes here to talk to you and Dr. Wilson about the arrangements that will have to be made to have him transferred to a hospital in Princeton once he's stable enough for the trip and also about some of the special therapy programs I want to see Kenny registered in. He's going to need a lot of help to deal with the psychological trauma he's been through."

A smile tugged at the diagnostician's mouth and despite his best effort to repress it, it slipped through anyway.

"I'm on my way to the cafeteria to meet with James. We can discuss this there," House told the worker .

"Good," Graham spoke up before Putnam could, "because I have a few questions of my own I'd like to ask you."

The diagnostician sighed and frowned. "Suit yourself…but in that case you're buying." He turned and continued on his way with renewed vigor; the detective and CPS worker fell into step with him.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

Kenny was awake when the diagnostician and oncologist arrived in his room; the X-ray films had shown that the edema in his lungs was minimal and that there was no evidence of free blood in his abdomen which would indicate internal bleeding. He would remain on the ventilator overnight and then be reevaluated in the morning; he'd be observed very closely but all indications were that he would make a full recovery, physically. Psychological healing would take quite a bit longer and was more uncertain.

Two chairs had been placed in the small room, on either side of the bed. Each doctor took a seat; House held a hard-cover book in his hands. Wilson reached over and took Kenny's hand in his.

"Kenny," Wilson said to him, earning the boy's gaze in his direction. "How would you like it if Dr. House read you a bedtime story? Don't try to talk."

The boy looked from Wilson to House and nodded. It was almost imperceptible but definitely a nod. House allowed a small smile to grace his lips.

"How would you like to come live with us for good?" House asked him gently. "That way I can read you bedtime stories all the time. Do you like that idea?"

Kenny nodded slightly again and a tear formed in the corner of his eye.

"Good," Wilson said, tearing up himself. "Then it's settled."

House rolled his eyes mockingly at Wilson's emotional display but inside he was just as moved. He held up the book Wilson had borrowed from the pediatrics department so the boy could see the cover. He then opened it with a flourish and began to spin the tale of a masterful storyteller.

"'Horton Hears a Who'," He read dramatically. " 'On the fifteenth of May, in the Jungle of Nool, in the heat of the day in the cool of the pool…he was splashing….enjoying the jungle's great joys when Horton the elephant heard a small voice…A person's a person no matter how small!'." 2

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1 ARDS stands for Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome, a "rapidly developing, life-threatening condition in which the lung is injured to the point where it can't properly do its job of moving air in and out of the blood."—Web M.D.

2 Horton Hears a Who. by Dr. Seuss. Random House. 1954


	19. Chapter 19 Change of Venue

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** This is the second last chapter so we're nearly done. Hopefully I'll be able to wrap up some loose ends. I also hope that this chapter isn't too OOC. I'm so depressed about the way this season is ending that I need to write about House and Wilson being in love and working through their problems and even starting to have a family. I know that House being miserable is good drama so good for ratings and that Huddy seems to be the only kind of 'ship David Shore is willing to have happen, but it's just not right or true to the characters. I hope this helps to cheer some of you up. Let me know what you think! This is unbeta-ed and I really want to get it out tonight so if there are glaring errors everywhere please forgive me. I'll fix them tomorrow, maybe. (sigh).

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated T** for coarse language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

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**Chapter Fifteen: Change of Venue**

Gregory House stood shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror and carefully trimmed his five day scruff into three day scruff after Wilson had whined that it was irritating him when they made out. His beard didn't seem to soften the longer it grew; personally the diagnostician suspected that it wasn't so much for practical reasons that his lover complained but rather esthetic ones. The diagnostician had to admit he preferred it shorter himself.

In the mirror, he saw said lover enter the bathroom and sidle up to him from behind, wrapping his arms around House's bare waist, pulling him close and placing small kisses on his neck. The older man closed his eyes for a few moments, allowing himself to appreciate the warmth and intimacy. To think that a few months ago he'd been considering moving out of the loft from this incredible man because of his own ignorance and fear. Luckily he hadn't…he'd be miserable all alone in his apartment back in Princeton, mourning what they both knew had become much more than mere friendship by then. He wouldn't have found the sense of peace he had, even the happiness he felt, had he simply run away like he usually did when people got too close. Not only did he have the love of his life, he was soon to have a family when Kenny moved into the loft. He never thought he'd see the day…but he was glad that he was.

"I was wondering if you were still interested in that shower," Wilson purred between kisses. "We've got plenty of time before we have to be at the hospital."

A sly grin crossed House's face. He set the trimmer down and turned to face the oncologist, wrapping his arms around him. He pulled Wilson close and then placed his hand behind the other's head; he leaned in and passionately kissed him. Wilson's right hand went up to comb his fingers through the diagnostician's graying hair and his left hand moved down to his boxer-covered butt.

"Those have to come off," Wilson said into the older man's mouth. He slipped his hand under the waist band so that skin touched skin; he began to caress and massage the gluteals, earning a small moan from House. The diagnostician agreed; all clothes had to disappear. They made quick work of stripping off the few clothes they were wearing; House broke from his lover's embrace long enough to start the hotel shower and adjust the temperature. Wilson helped House into the shower without incident and they took their time lathering and enjoying each other under the warm water.

Afterwards they dressed and finished preparing for the day; they went for breakfast in the hotel restaurant before checking out. Three days ago Kenny was taken to the hospital in Atlantic City; today he was stable enough to be transferred to Princeton-Plainsboro. House would be the one to ride with Kenny in the transfer ambulance while Wilson would drive the Volvo back. Walt Bujold knew someone who would sell for them the Accord for which House had exchanged his precious Repsol. That was a bitter pill that stuck in the Diagnostician's throat but no longer having his bike was little sacrifice because Kenny was safe, would heal and was going to be an everyday part of Wilson's and his lives.

On the drive to the trauma center a thought struck him which brought an amused smirk to his face. Wilson, who was driving, glanced over at the older man in time to see it.

"What's so funny?" the oncologist asked him, smiling himself.

House looked at him and answered, "I was thinking about my mom's reaction when she hears about Kenny. She was excited when she found out about us." He began to imitate quite well his mother's voice. "'It's about time, Greg! What took you so long? Now pass the phone to James!'."

Wilson grinned, remembering the phone conversation with Blythe House. It had been quite a bit more pleasant than his conversation with his parents, who were furious with House and wanted their son to sit down and have a long talk with their rabbi…not that the oncologist had expected their response to be any better.

"I'm telling you now," the diagnostician continued, his smirk an actual smile now, "she'll be in tears when she hears about Kenny—after she accuses me of pranking her and telling me how it's not funny."

House noticed the smile on Wilson's face fade a little and he stared straight ahead as he drove. The diagnostician knew that the oncologist was thinking about his parent's reaction to his announcement that he was involved in a same-sex relationship with him. Wilson had refused to tell the older man what exactly his parents had said about it, but it hadn't been good. The younger man had retired early for the night that night, asking to be left alone for a while; when House had checked on him a little while later he found out that the oncologist had cried himself to sleep. His first impulse was to call the senior Wilson's up and chew them out for whatever it had been they said to upset their son like they had; wisely, he'd chosen not to do that; Wilson's relationship with his family had become strained enough and House hadn't wanted to be responsible for making things worse. He knew family meant a great deal to his lover.

The diagnostician hated to see his lover and best friend hurting and hated those who were responsible for that hurt—far too often that meant he hated himself as well. He was working on that; this relationship was too important to him to fuck up by being an idiot.

"So we should expect a visit from her in the near future?" Wilson asked good-naturedly.

"Expect her to be on the next flight after we tell her," House answered dryly, only half-joking, rolling his eyes and sighing. He knew he wasn't fooling anybody by his mock-derision. Since his dad had died he had increased the amount of contact with his mother; he no longer had to suffer with the jerk's presence in order to spend time with his mom. Though she would probably deny it if asked, he could tell how much more relaxed and contented she was. Living with the Marine tyrant hadn't been all sunshine and roses for her, either.

_Well, obviously!_ House thought. _If she had been blissfully content with John House, I wouldn't have been conceived while he was away._

House was curious as to whether or not Wilson had any intention of telling his parents about Kenny but he refrained from asking, sensing that he wasn't ready to talk about it yet, if ever, and the diagnostician wanted to respect that. Well, actually, he didn't really care about respecting that but chose to anyway.

Once they arrived at the trauma center Wilson offered to drop House off at the door while he tried to find a parking spot that was less than a mile away from the entrance. House considered his pain level as opposed to the desire not to be treated as a cripple even though he was one. The leg was about a three.

"No," he told his lover firmly. "I'll walk with you."

Wilson glanced at him leerily but didn't argue. After a couple of passes they caught a car pulling out of a stall and took it for themselves before someone else saw it. It was about thirty yards from the doors so the diagnostician shouldn't have trouble with that. They emerged from the car and began to walk side by side when House reached over and took Wilson's hand. The younger man looked at him, startled. House took note of his surprise and decided that he would have to act out of character more often; Wilson looked adorable when he was surprised.

"What?" House said quickly in response to Wilson's reaction. "A guy can't hold his lover's hand without inciting astonishment? Fine, I'll let go." But Wilson held on tight.

They made their way to Kenny's room, finding him wide awake and sitting up as his nurse was already preparing him for the transfer. He was no longer intubated but nasal cannula remained in his nose feeding him a little extra oxygen. That he breathed on his own. The boy was no longer receiving IV fluids since he was taking in liquids well enough on his own, but the PICC line was left in his arm in case he needed to be given fluids again either on the ambulance or at Princeton-Plainsboro when he arrived.

Kenny perked up and smiled mildly when they entered his room. His color was better and he was gaining strength but he had a long ways to go before he was up to an appropriate weight. His nurse, a young woman named Zelda—_Zelda? Who the hell named their kid Zelda?_ The diagnostician silently wondered—told the doctors that while Kenny was on a soft diet he had ravenously devoured his farina at breakfast and had even asked for seconds.

"It was good," Kenny told them hoarsely—his throat was still sore and irritated from the breathing tube—"cause they let me put my apple sauce on top."

"You know what's better than apple sauce?" House asked him, sitting down on a chair and leaning on his cane. "Raspberry jam. Or strawberry, which ever you prefer. You know what's better than farina?"

Kenny shook his head shyly, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips and his emerald green eyes sparkled. "No, what?"

"James' macadamia nut pancakes with maple or chocolate syrup," the diagnostician told him with a wink. "If you ask him nicely, maybe he'll make them for you when you come to live with us."

Wilson was smiling when Kenny turned his head towards him.

"Dr. Wilson, will you make me macda-da--?" the five-year-old stumbled over the word. "Uh. Those pancakes when I come to live with you, please?"

"That was very polite, Kenny, good for you," Wilson told him approvingly. "I think I can do that, yes. But you'll have to get up earlier than Greg to get any because he's a macadamia nut pancake monster so you'll have to make sure to get some before he has breakfast!"

Kenny smiled slightly. House watched him thoughtfully, hoping that there would come a time when he would feel safe and happy enough for a real grin. He himself knew better than anyone just how much it was going to take for the child to get there; he was almost fifty-one and he still had work to do to get there. The diagnostician would do everything in his power to make certain that he did.

'You know, Kenny," the oncologist said to him, "Greg and I were talking and we decided that you don't have to call us 'Dr. Wilson' and 'Dr. H'. If you are okay with it, you can call us James and Greg if you want."

Kenny looked at House questioningly and the diagnostician nodded his head in affirmation.

"Okay," Kenny said softly and then was quiet. House exchanged a quick look with his lover; the younger man nodded imperceptibly. It was going to take a lot of attention and care to earn the boy's trust.

"I'll be riding with you in the ambulance to Princeton," The diagnostician told the child. "James will drive his car back and meet us at the same hospital you were in before. You'll stay there for a few more days and then you'll come home with us."

"Will Dr. Hadley and Nurse June be there?" Kenny asked, perking up. "I like them…they're very pretty, and nice, too."

House couldn't hide his amusement; five years old and he already had an eye for the ladies! Good taste, too.

"Uh oh!" Nurse Zelda said teasingly. "It sounds like we have a lady-killer here! Sweetie, with those great, big, beautiful eyes you're going to break some hearts someday!"

"I don't want to hurt anybody's heart!" the five-year-old said a little anxiously. House glared at the nurse but she recovered quickly.

"Oh, no, Kenny!" she told him, gently touching his shoulder, "I meant that someday there are going to be a lot of girls who will like you. I know you wouldn't hurt anyone."

Kenny visibly relaxed and sighed. He looked tired. He closed his eyes and within seconds was breathing slowly and rhythmically. Zelda gestured for the doctors to follow her out of the room. Reluctantly House rose to his feet and followed as did Wilson. One they were out of earshot of the child she explained something to them.

"I'm sorry for that slip-up," she apologized contritely. "For a moment there I forgot about what Kenny has been through. He's pretty much ready so when the ambulance arrives he'll be loaded right away. Dr. Zafar, his pediatrician, has ordered that he be given a mild sedative to help him with the stress of the trip so he'll receive that right before he goes to the ambulance. He should sleep for much of the drive but it's good that you'll be with him, Dr. House, in case he wakes up and becomes anxious; a familiar face will help soothe him. As you know he's being given broad spectrum antibiotics to ward off any infections from the contagious bacteria and parasites he took into his lungs with the lake water. If I don't have a chance to speak with you before you leave, I want to wish the three of you the best of wishes. He's a darling child and I'm very happy to see that he's going to end up with two people who obviously care a great deal for him."

"Thank you," Wilson told her and House nodded in acknowledgement. She gave them a warm smile and then walked away. Wilson was about to return to the room when House grabbed his arm to stop him and pulled him into an embrace.

"Thank you," the oncologist whispered into his ear.

"For what?" the younger man asked, surprised but thoroughly enjoying the feel of his partner's arms around him.

House pulled back enough to look him in the eyes. They exchanged gazes and like telepathy Wilson had his answer.

"Hey," the oncologist said with the lopsided smile that caused House to become putty in his hands, "I wanted him, too. Kenny grows on you quickly."

"I was going to say 'like a bad fungus' but then I decided that wasn't appropriate at all," House said, smirking in amusement.

Chuckling, his lover responded, "Baby steps."

"May I interrupt?" a familiar voice said from nearby.

House didn't look over at Walt Bujold. "No," he said petulantly. "He's mine. Find your own person to hug."

"Oh god, Greg!" Wilson said, gently ending the embrace to face the Private Detective. His face was flushed from embarrassment. He stepped forward to shake Bujold's hand when he realized it was busy holding a gift-wrapped present.

"For me?" House quipped drily, eyeing the balloon-covered wrapping paper curiously. "You shouldn't have."

"I didn't," Bujold retorted with a grin. "This is for Kenny. Would you give it to him for me?"

"Of course, Walt," The oncologist said, accepting the gift from him. "But why don't come in and give it to him personally?"

"He's sleeping," the P.I. told him, shaking his head. "That's more important than seeing my ugly mug. I won't tell you what it is, but I will tell you that a similar item helped my adopted daughter through the recovery process from the trauma she experience before my wife and I got her. I hope it is a comfort to Kenny as well."

"Thank you," Wilson told him, "and thank you for your help in rescuing him."

"You're welcome," Bujold said before turning to face House. "It was good meeting you, House."

The diagnostician didn't say anything but he nodded in acknowledgement an a hint of a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. For him, that was the equivalent of a 'You, too'. The P.I. took his leave just as Kenny's nurse returned with the syringe of sedative for the boy. Behind her came a paramedic pushing a stretcher. It was time. House and Wilson followed Zelda into the room. She gently roused the boy.

"It's time to go, now," she told him. "I have to give you some medicine you you don't get nervous or sick on the ambulance, okay? It will make you feel sleepy, but that's okay. You can sleep as much as you want."

"A needle?" Kenny moaned, screwing up his face. Zelda nodded.

"Yes," she admitted, but this one I can give you through your PICC line because it doesn't have to be injected into muscle, so it shouldn't hurt at all."

Nodding, Kenny relaxed somewhat and watched intently as his nurse injected the sedative through his PICC line. She rubbed his head and placed a kiss on the top of it. "Have a good trip, Kenny. Thank you for being such a great patient."

The nurse and paramedic swiftly but carefully lifted the boy from the hospital bed to the stretcher, where a belt was secured across Kenny to keep him safely in place. House and Wilson stepped aside to allow the stretcher out of the room.

"I'll see you back in Princeton," the oncologist told his lover before parting from him. House limped beside the stretcher as it was pushed towards the ER and the ambulance bay in particular. He was lifted into the transfer ambulance and House climbed in and sat next to him.

House held Kenny's hand unceasingly from that point until he was being unloaded in the ambulance bay at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching hospital. The five-year-old fell asleep almost immediately after they left the trauma center and remained that way for the duration of the journey; House didn't mind. He was actually glad for it. It gave him time to reflect and process through everything that had happened in the past crazy year.

His life had radically changed in the last few months and part of it terrified him; the commitment, the responsibility and the vulnerability of tying his life not only to Wilson but now to Kenny as well. He asked himself several times each day before he even climbed out of bed in the morning if this was what he really wanted. What if Wilson decided someday that he was sick and tired of being tied down by a drug-addicted cripple and left him? What if he slipped up again and went back to using—how quickly would his family be destroyed by him? Was he really good enough for Wilson, or was the younger man settling out of a misplaced sense of loyalty? Would he be a good parent-figure for Kenny? Or would he end up screwing the little boy up worse than he already was? What did he know about childrearing, anyway? He was nearly fifty-one years old, for Pete's sake! By the time Kenny graduated from high school he'd be collecting Social Security—that is, if he lived that long what with his strung out liver and clotting issues that had caused his infarction in the first place. He could die from liver failure, a pulmonary embolism, a heart attack or a stroke before the year ended. Was it fair to Wilson and Kenny?

The ambulance hit a bump in the road and Kenny stirred, moaning slightly. He opened his eyes and looked around himself anxiously until they found House's familiar face staring down at him fondly. Kenny smiled a little smile and then drifted back to sleep.

Was it fair to them? House asked himself again. No, it absolutely wasn't; House was gaining so much more than they were, and wouldn't trade that for the world. Was the risk worth it?

House gently brushed a lock of hair off of the little boy's forehead.

Beyond a _shadow_ of a doubt.

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The transfer ambulance made good time. When it pulled up into the bay at PPTH House was glad that he could climb out from the cramped position he found himself in and stretch out his stiff, aching right leg. The pain had been tolerable until the last twenty minutes when his thigh began to protest in earnest. House had forced himself to think about other things rather than dwell on the pain, but it had reached a fully-developed seven out of ten by the time it was time to disembark, as it were. He had dry-swallowed two Ibuprofen when the pain had begun to intensify, but the anti-inflammatory barely took the edge off of the pain. The muscle was cramping up and if he didn't get it to relax soon, he could very well be looking at breakthrough pain happening again—without that experimental painkiller to help him this time.

It was a good thing he was at a hospital, then.

The driver climbed out of the cab and rounded the ambulance. He opened the double doors and remained nearby to offer the diagnostician assistance in climbing out if it was required; House, stubborn as always, refused to ask for help and managed but not without his leg screaming at him for it. Gritting his teeth he limped out of the way to allow the paramedics room to remove Kenny and stretcher. They rolled the stretcher towards the Emergency Room casually. Kenny wasn't critical, he was simply sleeping so there was no great rush.

House was grateful for that. Just walking beside the stretcher was nearly unbearable. When they pushed through the ER bay doors they were greeted by a crowd of people—mostly hospital people—waiting for them. It was…nice. He was in no position to appreciate nice just then. In the crowd of well-wishers was, of course, Lisa Cuddy. Was it possible that she was showing? House asked himself as he began to limp past her. She would have already finished her first trimester and be a couple of weeks into her second, if he wasn't mistaken. It was a little early, but not impossible.

"Cuddy," House said to her, gesturing for her to approach. He allowed the PPTH staff to take over with Kenny and paused a few moments with his boss. She looked up at him with her blue-grey eyes and must have recognized in his face the indications of his pain.

"How bad?" she asked him, mincing no words.

"Would nine be a good number?" he told her through gritted teeth. He could feel the perspiration begin to bead on his skin and the nausea built from the pit of his stomach and was certain she could see his trembling. "Is James here yet?"

"Not yet," she answered. He knew that she knew that he didn't want to make a scene but needed help…now. Cuddy called and ER staffer over discreetly and explained to the second year resident the situation and instructed her to gather a team while the Dean of Medicine would help House slip away from the little impromptu party and into a treatment bay to be cared for. House and Cuddy almost made a clean getaway when Chase and Thirteen noticed that something was wrong. Thirteen said something to her male counterpart and then made her way quickly to join her boss and her boss' boss.

"Leg?" the Fellow asked quietly as the three of them took over bay number seven. Thirteen quickly drew the privacy curtain around them for the much desired seclusion it provided. She then helped Cuddy get House onto the treatment bed, in spite of House's snarly protests to be 'unhanded' by them.

"I'll go keep an eye out for Wilson," Cuddy told the younger woman, gettin'while the gettin' was good. House knew she was just as uncomfortable with him as he was with her so she was doing the wise thing and allowing her doctors to do their jobs while she did hers—out of her star diagnostician's presence.

"Remove your pants, please," Dr. Remy Hadley told him.

"Thirteen, I'll have you know that I'm already spoken for," the diagnostician muttered, trying to keep the mood light and hide his embarrassment. He appreciated her help but it was still _help, _something he was loathe to admit to needing.

She knew this, ignoring him and saying, "Drop them! Come on, you know we need them off so we can wrap your leg in moist heat."

House dropped all pretense of false-modesty and undid his fly and zipper. He wiggled the jeans off carefully, being sure to keep his boxers safely in place. If he thought it would have bothered Thirteen to see him completely bottomless he would have done that just to shock or annoy her, but he knew she wouldn't be phased by it so where was the fun?

He held his hand over his scar, only partially hiding it. It was the one thing he hated to have others see. He moaned audibly in pain, embarrassed by it but unable to stop himself. His eyes were filled with tears that he desperately tried to hold back but failed. He wondered if his humiliation could get any worse.

"Okay," Thirteen said with practiced detachment. "Let's get your legs up onto the table so you can lay down. Do you need help?"

The diagnostician quickly shook his head. It took everything he had to lift his right leg with his hands onto the table without screaming or passing out. After that bringing his other leg up was nothing. He lay back, resting his head on the rubberized pillow. His Fellow then raised the head of the bed slightly to make him more comfortable. She reached into a cabinet drawer and pulled out a paper sheet and draped it over his bottom half to provide him some privacy. He noted the small gesture of respect.

The curtain opened and three people came in—the ER resident, a nurse and a physical therapist. Fleetingly House wondered if there was a joke for that combination until another spasm caused him to gasp.

"Dr. House we're going to give you an injection of orphenadrine for the muscle spasms," the resident told him, and an anti-inflammatory for the pain."

House rolled his eyes in frustration, trying hard not to think about how badly he wanted Vicodin.

"Yeah, yeah," he said sharply, "Just do it!"

His acidity startled the young doctor, who looked questioningly at Thirteen. The Fellow lacked sympathy; she was talked to like that everyday.

"I'll take care of Dr. House," Thirteen offered, but the patient quickly objected.

"No!" House told her. "I need you to do something else. Go sit with Kenny—if he wakes up alone he may panic. He knows you; he'll be alright if he sees you're there instead. Wilson will relieve you when he gets here. If he asks about me, don't tell him why I'm not there. Make something up. I don't want to frighten him."

The Fellow looked down at her boss warmly. "You're just a big softy, House," she teased.

The diagnostician glared at her, annoyed. "Say that again, you'll be working off my Clinic hours for the next month! Go!"

The smile never left Thirteen's face as she walked away, pulled back the curtain to pass through and was gone.

House turned to glare at the resident. "Don't just stand there—give me the shot already!"

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Wilson arrived at the hospital and entered through the ER entrance, heading immediately to the treatment area, unrestricted this time. Cuddy had called him on his cell phone to tell him what had happened with House. While this was hardly the first time breakthrough pain had incapacitated the diagnostician, the last time had been in Atlantic City, and House had gone into cardiac arrest. That memory spurred him to move even more quickly.

He headed to the nursing station.

"Dr. House?" he asked them simply; most of the nurses knew him. Just before the charge nurse could answer he heard the sound of his lover tearing into some poor staffer with the words 'idiot' and 'incompetent' ringing out loud and clear. Wilson sighed, shook his head and gave the nurses an apologetic smile before heading in the direction of House's angry baritone voice.

As soon as Wilson pulled back the curtain, he could see the source of the diagnostician's wrath. The only other person in the bay was a young nurse, probably new, who stood shaking next to the intimidating patient, shaking slightly. From the looks of it, she had been attempting to start a line in a vein in House's arm but had erred with the first try. Blood streamed thinly off of the doctor's arm. She looked too stunned to even stop the bleeding.

Seeing Wilson arrive, House said, "Thank God! Took you long enough! What'd you do, stop at Starbuck's?"

The oncologist avoided his glare. He'd been in the mood for a low-fat venti low-fat latte and didn't know there was going to be an emergency. It annoyed him that his partner knew him that well. Instead of responding Wilson went to the nurse and took the needle out of her hands, frowning.

"Don't just stand there--stop the bleeding," he commanded firmly but calmly, "and then get a new needle."

Quickly the nurse did as he said, having snapped out of her fear-induced trance. The oncologist watched her, standing akimbo. He felt a twinge of sympathy for her; House was a horrible patient to work with when someone was an experienced health care worker, much less a younger, less experienced individual. All the same, she had to learn not to panic the moment something went wrong or she wouldn't make it in her chosen profession.

When the nurse arrived with a new needle Wilson quickly took it from her.

"I'll take care of this," he told her. "Go get janitorial to come and clean up the floor."

She didn't wait to be told twice. Wilson set the needle down on a nearby tray, went to the small sink near House's bed and washed his hands. After that he located a pair of gloves and set to work starting the IV line himself.

"At least I see that you're strong enough to be a royal pain in the ass," Wilson said to House. "I was a little concerned when Cuddy called me. Small pinch, Greg." He pierced the skin with the needle and skillfully hit the vein perfectly; he attached the IV tubing and then opened the valve to allow for the saline to drip into the older man's blood stream.

House sighed in relief. "You make a good nurse. You missed your calling."

"I'll stick with my day job, thanks," the oncologist retorted with a smirk, disposing of the bloodied cotton swabs and the gloves on his hands into a yellow biohazardous waste receptacle. He placed a loving kiss on his lover's forehead before pulling up a chair and sitting down.

He had the time now to notice that the diagnostician's leg had been elevated, wrapped in damp towels and then wrapped again in a heating pad. A thin blanket had been draped over the lower half of his body.

"What'd they give you?" he asked the older man.

"Orphenadrine and Ibuprofen," House told him, looking more relaxed now. "The Ibuprofen is useless but the muscle relaxant and heat has brought the pain down from excruciating to barely tolerable. Thirteen is sitting with Kenny right now."

Wilson nodded and smiled softly. "How did he handle the drive?"

"The dimenhydrinate he was given before we left knocked him out for the entire trip," House answered. "He was fine. James, I will not allow myself to be admitted. I'm doing much better and I'd rest better at home."

"Alright," his partner agreed. "We'll allow them to hydrate you and give your leg a break then I'll take you home. Try not to terrorize the staff. Okay?"

House nodded in satisfaction. "I'm a big boy," he said. "Go sit with the little boy for a while. I wouldn't mind taking a nap myself."

"Okay," Wilson said, giving his hand a squeeze and standing up. "See you later."

House smirked. "Not if I see you first." He didn't protest, however, when the oncologist placed another tender kiss on his lover's lips and then left him alone.

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Kenny Baker opened his eyes and looked around. He was in another hospital room, but he was getting used to that. At least in the hospital he knew he was safe. He felt so sleepy but he was also hungry. He looked around lazily and then spotted the familiar lady with long brown hair and pretty face. She noticed that he was awake and smiled at him.

"Hi, Kenny!" she said to him gently. "Do you remember me?"

He nodded. "Dr. Hadley," he murmured.

"That's right," she told him. "I'm very happy to see you again! How do you feel?"

The five-year-old yawned. "I'm tired. Where are Greg and James?"

An eyebrow rose on the pretty doctor's forehead. "Dr. House is taking care of a patient's pain right now and Dr. Wilson hasn't got here yet but he will soon. You call them Greg and James?"

The small boy nodded. "They told me I could since I'm going to go live with them after I get better."

A look of surprise and then a huge grin crossed Thirteen's face. "You are? That's wonderful, Kenny! Are you excited?"

He nodded and smiled. "James is going to make me pancakes with nuts in them and Greg is going to read me stories at bed time."

"Sounds like fun," she told him with a wink. Kenny looked towards the door when he heard it whoosh open. James walked in and smiled at him, approaching the bed.

"Thanks for sitting with him," Wilson told her quietly.

"No problem," Thirteen told him with a smile. "Kenny and I were having a chat. He says that he's going to live with you and House after he gets out of the hospital."

"That's right," Wilson confirmed, grinning in spite of himself and looking at the boy. "We're going to have fun, aren't we?"

Kenny nodded. He was excited. It was going to be just like his dreams. He couldn't wait!


	20. Chapter 20   Irrevocable Trust

**The Law of House**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** Here we are, at last, where we must say farewell to this story. I always feel hopelessly sentimental when I finish a fic, particularly one like this where so much of my heart has gone into it. Thanks to all of you die-hards that have stuck through this with me to the end. Thanks for all of the reviews that have been a help and encouragement. This is likely not the last we will hear from House, Wilson and Kenny. They will probably reappear from time to time in one-shots or small chaptered fics, since I don't think I could stand to just let them go! Hopefully _this_ finale will cheer you up from the season finale. As OOC as this may be, it can't be any more OOC than what we saw Monday night. This is also for the character of Thirteen, who was cut from the show for no apparent reason. I hope I'm mistaken and that she'll be back next season but I don't know. If anyone has any intel on that, message me! I liked her, especially lately, and am going to miss her.

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated T** for coarse language, violence and sexuality. Discretion advised.

**Chapter Sixteen: Irrevocable Trust**

Dr. Gregory House stepped out of the courtroom, clad in a stylish grey suit and azure blue tie (the tie had been selected by his lover, telling him that he needed a bit of color with the grey and the blue brought out the blue in his eyes). He was clean-shaven (and very irritable about it) and his hair, which was no longer the institutional buzz cut but a little longer and fuller, was neatly combed. Sitting in the hall on a bench were the two most important people in the world to him, waiting for him to finish testifying in front of the grand jury convened to decide whether there was enough evidence to warrant a trial for Joseph Fromm. As the Outcry Witness and eyewitness to certain elements of the crimes he was charged with, House's testimony was part of the foundation of the State's case against Kenny's former foster father. As much as House disliked dressing up like Wilson and sitting in a courtroom he had been delighted to be a party of getting Fromm convicted and imprisoned for a long, long time.

Dr. James Wilson, also clad in suit and tie (which was hardly unusual for him) sat on the bench with Kenny Baker seated next to him, clad in a dark grey suit of his own, reading a "My First Reader" book when House had emerged. Wilson was helping him sound out the words; the boy was becoming increasingly independent, requiring less and less prompting over time.

"Mm-y ball is b-buloo," Kenny read softly without help. He looked up at Wilson to see if he'd read it correctly. The oncologist nodded with a smile, which precipitated a sigh and a smile from the child. Kenny looked up briefly saw House coming towards them.

"Greg," he said excitedly, "I read two pages all by myself, right James?"

"That's right," Wilson agreed, looking up at the diagnostician and winking. "You're going to be reading 'War and Peace' in no time."

"Then you can teach James how," House said sarcastically. He leaned over and gave his lover a kiss. Wilson took Kenny's book and closed it then rose to his feet. Kenny stood up as well, and grabbed House's hand with one of his and Wilson's hand with the other. They began to walk down the hall towards the elevators.

"How'd it go in there?" the oncologist asked quietly. They wouldn't discuss specifics around Kenny; he was looking for a generic answer.

"It was a ball," House quipped. "More fun than my last visit to the dentist. Half of the Jury members were building the gallows, the rest were weaving the rope for the noose."

"What's a noose?" Kenny asked, looking up at his foster parents. House smirked down at him; the five-year-old had an insatiable curiosity, one of the things he shared with the diagnostician. Whenever House had asked questions of his own dad growing up, John House usually had told him it was none of his business or to shut up. Later, his mother would take him aside and answer him if she knew the answer.

"It's a special kind of knot that you tie with a rope," the older man told him. "It's like the slip knot I showed you. I'll teach you to tie one at home sometime."

Wilson glared at him disapprovingly but didn't comment and House pretended not to notice.

"Can you snare animals with it?" the child asked, his green eyes sparkling with interest.

"Actually, you can use it to hang animals," House told him.

"Greg," the oncologist said warningly.

House said nothing but smiled evilly. They reached the elevators. Kenny ran to press the call button first as he usually did.

"I still can't believe I let you trick me into this," House grumbled sotto voce. A number of other people assembled around the elevators as well. One of those people was a young mother with a sleeping baby hanging in a sling from around her shoulders. Kenny had slowly gravitated towards her as House and Wilson spoke.

"What, trick?" Wilson objected frowning. "If I recall correctly, it was your idea to begin with."

"You recall incorrectly," House insisted. "I wanted just the party. You're the one who added everything else."

The oncologist frowned at him, "So are you saying you don't want to now? You said that--!"

"I'm not backing out!" the older man said, rolling his eyes. Wilson could blow things out of proportion faster than anyone else he'd ever known. "I do want to do this. Maybe not the way you have it planned out, but I do. I'm setting the record straight."

The elevator doors dinged and opened. People began to step inside. The diagnostician realized Kenny was no longer standing with them. He turned to look for him and saw the five-year-old with the young mother. She had bent down so Kenny could look at the sleeping infant; he was stroking the baby's scalp with a feather light touch. Smiling from ear to ear he said to her, "I saw a baby picture of me. I was a pretty baby, too."

"I'm sure you were," she told him with an amused grin before standing upright again and walking onto the elevator. House grabbed Kenny's hand and the three handsome gentlemen were the last to step in before the doors shut.

"These are my dads," he informed her, nodding at the two doctors. "Well, actually they're my foster dads, but they're just like regular dads."

The woman looked at House and Wilson, smiling and nodding in acknowledgement. The diagnostician nodded a little self-consciously but the oncologist smiled and said a simple hi.

"Does your baby have a dad?" Kenny asked, his normally quiet voice sounding amazingly loud in the enclosed space.

"Yes, she does," the mother answered patiently. "He's working right now."

"What's he working at?" was the boy's next question.

"He's a lawyer," she told him. "He works in this building a lot."

Kenny nodded enthusiastically. "My dads are doctors. They work at a hospital making sick people better. Right Greg?"

House looked down into Kenny's grinning face and couldn't hold back a mild smile. "Usually."

"James says that Greg hides in the baby-doctors' lounge watching soap operas sometimes," the five-year-old told her. House glared sideways at Wilson, who was suddenly finding a spot on the roof of the elevator car extremely interesting.

"Well," the mother said with amusement, "everybody needs a hobby."

"Greg says that James' 'hobby' is holding bald kids' hands."

The elevator dinged and the doors opened into the main level of the courthouse. House was never quite so relieved to see a lobby before. The only good part was how cute Wilson looked when he was blushing and trying to pretend that he wasn't. Still holding Kenny's hand House gave it a quick squeeze as they stepped out of the elevator.

"Say hi to your husband for me!" Kenny shouted after the woman as they parted directions. "My name is Kenny!" He waved at her.

"I will," she waved back. "Nice talking to you Kenny!"

"Has James been teaching you how to flirt?" House demanded a few moments later as they stepped past security at the door, returning their visitor badges to one of the guards.

"What's a flirt?" Kenny asked quizzically.

House nodded at Wilson. "James is," he told the boy with a smirk. "Ask any nurse at the hospital."

They made their way down the steps of the courthouse slowly to accommodate House's leg, which had been better for pain lately but still wasn't cooperating as much as the diagnostician would like.

"I don't flirt!" the younger man argued indignantly. "Being polite and friendly is not flirting. Not everybody likes to bark at the people they work with."

"Do you bark at the nurses?" the five-year-old inquired, wide-eyed.

"No," House told him seriously, scowling, pulling his face up close to the boy's, "but I have been known to BITE on occasion!" He pretended to snap his teeth at Kenny's nose. This started a laughing fit with the child that lasted until after they had walked across the parking lot to Wilson's car and had secured the boy into his booster chair in the back seat; Kenny was too large for a forward facing car seat but too small to be left with just a seatbelt. Since leaving the hospital and moving in with the doctors both men had been trying to put some meat on the child who had been reduced almost to skin and bones by the Fromms. Wilson made the nutritious meals while House provided the potato chips, popcorn, chocolate milk and pizza and grape soda floats in front of the TV (much to Wilson's chagrin) watching Monster truck events and Discovery channel.

"Are we going to the party now?"Kenny called from the backseat.

"Yes," Wilson told him, looking at him in the rearview mirror. "Now remember what we talked about, how we're going to be on our best behavior, right?"

"Right," Kenny answered with a nod.

"That goes for you too," Wilson said to his lover.

"But Mo-om!" House whined teasingly, screwing up his face and looking over at the driver. This earned another laughing fit from Kenny.

Wilson smirked, shaking his head. Hearing the laughter made him want to laugh, too. He hoped that his parents could let go of their prejudice and just accept that the oncologist was happier now than he'd been in—well, forever, really. Besides, House and he had had Kenny in their home for four months now and things were tentatively looking good that after the one year mark they could start the process of adoption. Kenny's father had disappeared off of the map and his mother had accepted a plea bargain, pleading not guilty to felony child abuse and second degree kidnapping, resulting in a stint in prison and forfeiture of her parental rights to him. His mother had been complaining that it was time for Wilson to get serious, settle down and give her grandchildren. While his way was definitely unconventional, she was going to be getting what she wanted.

The past four months had flown by so quickly it amazed him. The first month had been a difficult one, adjusting to the addition of Kenny to what he and House had and the child had suffered horrible night terrors, keeping the doctors up more nights than they actually managed to sleep through. The child psychiatrist had warned them that Kenny's PTSD would plague him for a long time, perhaps for years, but the longer he was immersed in a patient, understanding and loving home the better he would get. Both doctors had expected as much, but Wilson had had concerns over how House would react to the stress of it; he needn't have been concerned. The diagnostician had shown amazing patience with the child, being the one to voluntarily get up with him most nights and sit with him until he managed to get back to sleep. There had been a few mornings when Wilson had found his partner asleep on the living room sofa with the TV still on quietly and Kenny snoring lightly curled up with him. Wilson suspected that part of it was due to the fact that House was an insomniac and didn't sleep much anyway and part of it was his ability to relate and empathize on a deeper level with Kenny's trauma than the oncologist could.

House was a different man at home than he was at the hospital where he was still the irascible, surly, sarcastic genius he had always been (albeit a little less of an asshole than he'd been nearly a year and a half before). His basic personality hadn't changed—and Wilson hoped it never did—but the overflowing anger and bitterness had mellowed and he was continuing to learn in therapy how to use those powerful emotions for his own benefit instead of self-destruction. To put it simply, House was more at peace than Wilson remembered ever seeing him. Perhaps it was due to the fact that for the first time in his life the older man truly felt like he belonged, that he was loved and that he had a home.

Chuckling at Kenny's side-splitting laughter, House looked out of the corner of his eye at his lover and sighed silently. Besides being reminded just how incredible he looked with his thick dark hair and soft, chocolate brown eyes he realized that this was what happy was like, or at least as happy as someone like him would ever get. He wondered when it would happen—when he would do something to screw this up and bring everything crashing down around him like he always did, eventually. At his last session with Nolan he had asked the same question. His psychiatrist's answer hadn't been what he'd expected, but it had been honest and somehow it had given him more comfort than something that had been fabricated to make him feel better.

"There are no guarantees when it comes to love and family, or happiness for that matter," Nolan had said, sitting back in his chair. "Sometimes life happens and the things we value the most are torn away from us. Sometimes we screw up and hurt the one's we love. If life had guarantees it would be safe but incredibly boring. It's in the risk that life is worth the living. You have a man who loves you dearly, and a little boy who idolizes you. Don't worry about tomorrow; savor today. You can worry about tomorrow—tomorrow. And who knows—maybe you won't screw up so badly that you'll lose everything. Maybe it's your turn now, Greg, to have a little bit of happiness. God knows you've endured more than your share of pain."

Carpe diem; it was a new and frightening concept for someone who had spent most of his life just surviving the day, much less seizing it. There were so many things that were new and terrifying and absolutely wonderful that it all made House's head spin and he couldn't help but fleetingly wonder from time to time if this wasn't all a dream, or worse yet, a hallucination. What if he was still in Mayfield detoxing and everything that had happened that entire year had been one giant delusion of his sick mind? What if he wasn't sober? What if he and Wilson had never admitted to themselves and to each other how much they loved each other? What if Kenny's cherubic face that he was looking at that very second was simply the misfiring of neurons due to chemical imbalances in his brain? What then?

If so, then he never wanted to be sane again. He wanted to remain blissfully delusional for the rest of his life.

"Greg?" Wilson said softly, noting the faraway look in his lover's eyes. "What are you thinking about?"

House thought about telling him the truth and then thought twice. He didn't want to sound like a hormonal woman reading a romance novel.

"That I'm absolutely insane," the diagnostician replied, "to be doing this. Then again, sanity is greatly overrated."

Wilson shook his head in bewilderment. "Nobody has ever suspected you were completely sane, Greg."

Smirking, House was about to unleash a brilliant retort when Kenny's cry from the backseat prevented him. "We're here! I see everybody! Oh, there's Rachel! Can I go play with her, please?"

"When the party starts, buddy," Wilson told him, his eyes smiling indulgently. "Now, you remember what you have to do, right? Just the way we practiced, Okay?"

Kenny rolled his green eyes in a way that reminded the oncologist of the bigger kid sitting in the seat beside him. "Of course I do, James! I'm not a little baby!"

"That's right, James," House quipped. "Get things straight already."

"Shut up!"

In unison Kenny and House cried out, "Oh oh! Naughty word jar!"

Wilson cast House a death glare and it was all House could do to keep himself from laughing.

They parked in the public lot for the park and hurried towards the small group of people who had assembled in the small glade that overlooked a pond where a pair of ducks lazily glided on the mirror-still water. There was a small dais built with a white linen canopy hanging over it. Folding chairs had been set up for everyone in the crowd. The party guests wore semi-formal outfits, looking a little out of place amidst the picnic tables that were scattered randomly about, but no one really cared. As soon as the three gentlemen arrived, after a few handshakes and hugs (even House tolerated a handshake or two and a hug from Thirteen), everyone took their seats except for the principals involved, who moved up to the dais.

Wilson and House were alerted when the senior Wilson ran up to the front and secreted two skull caps to them.

"For your mother's sake," his father told the oncologist with a wink before returning to sit next to his wife.

House felt uncomfortable having all of those eyes looking up at him as he put his on and secured it with the provided hair pins. One good thing about it, he had to admit, was that the little black beanie-like cap covered the spot where his hair was thinning quite well. He could feel his anxiety level rising but he took a few deep breaths to control it.

"I swore I would never do this," he whispered to his partner, frowning slightly.

"Then I guess it's a good thing for me that you love me so much," the oncologist whispered back with a lopsided smile.

"You're such a _girl_ sometimes," House retorted, rolling his eyes. He looked out over the people seated in the chairs. Up front were Wilson's parents who had surprised both doctors when they had given their blessing. Next to them sat Blythe House, looking as pretty as always. She caught her son's eye for a brief moment and winked. House frowned disapprovingly but that was quickly overcome with a small smile for her. His eyes moved on to take in his team who grouped themselves together; Thirteen was smiling, Chase had a goofy grin, Taub and his wife Rachel sat next to them and Foreman finished the row. He even had a pleasant expression on his face; it wasn't exactly a smile but it wasn't the stony mask he usually had pasted there. He saw Lisa Cuddy sitting towards the back with Rachel seated in the chair next to her; it was obvious why the girl wasn't on her mother's lap. There was no room with the unborn child in her taking up most of the space. What surprised him was the husky African-American man sitting next to Rachel. He had to have just arrived. House caught Darryl Nolan's eye and nodded once with a smirk. Nolan nodded back with an encouraging smile of approval.

The senior Wilson's rabbi, standing just behind the two doctors on the dais began the very short but sufficiently traditional ceremony. House had easily perfected the Hebrew vow he agreed to say and surprised the rabbi in how naturally it came off of his tongue. Every time the diagnostician felt a wave of uncertainty or fear he looked into Wilson's puppy dog eyes and remembered again why he had agreed to go through with this. When it came time for the ring exchange Kenny was sent up with the two boxes and carefully handed the rings over as they were needed. The child stood up tall with pride, having completed his job just as he and Wilson had practiced the night before. He then returned to sit down between the respective parents. Both mothers leaned towards him to give him kisses which the five-year-old proceeded quickly to wipe off--but he had a shy smile on his face.

When the time came the rabbi picked up two wine glasses, wrapped them up and set them on the ground.

"Do I really have to do this?" House muttered quietly out of the side of his mouth. He felt like a side-show freak on display.

"If you ever want to have sex again you do," Wilson answered similarly.

"You are a manipulative bitch, you know that?" House whispered, disgruntled.

"And you're a miserable bastard," the oncologist whispered back. "But as you said, 'together we can rule the world'."

House meant to tell him how cheesy that was but he didn't get the chance and would be sure to tell him later.

With the crushing of two glasses beneath two feet and a very passionate kiss, the ceremony ended and the party was set to begin.

Blythe was first to embrace Wilson; she whispered, "Thank you!"

"For what?" the oncologist asked her with a smile.

"For making him happy," she told him simply before hugging her bashful son.

"I'm proud of you, Gregory," she told him. "Then again I always have been. _Always_."

House had to swallow hard not to show how emotional he felt on the inside. He looked down at his mother with big blue eyes. "You don't have to say that. I know I haven't given you a lot of reason."

"You're brilliant, talented, gentle and you've worked so hard to get here today," she told him firmly. "What more reason do I need? No more pity parties, my boy. There's nothing about you to be pitied."

House grinned at her genuinely. "Thanks for not mentioning…you know."

"This is _your _day," Blythe reminded him. "Not his."

Wilson turned into Thirteen's embrace. "Mazel Tov, Wilson! You don't have to thank me for pushing you to be honest to him."

"But I will anyway," he told her. "Thanks."

She nodded and then scoped out House for a hug. He turned around to have her wrap her arms around him for the second time that day.

"Not _now_, Thirteen," House told her wryly. "My husband is here."

"I know," she said with a wink, "I was just with _him_."

"Kinky," House said with mock-admiration. "You know, that's given me an idea…."

"Which is all it's ever going to be," she told him knowingly. House mock-sighed in disappointment.

As soon as she had moved on Wilson's parents came over to him. As first House exchanged a moment of uncomfortable looks with them before Mrs. Wilson approached him and gave him a gentle, warm hug.

"Welcome to our family," she told him, smiling and placing a kiss on his cheek then smudging the lipstick away with her thumb.

House couldn't help but to ask softly, "Are you sure about that?"

She looked at him with guilty eyes. "I'm _sure_, Greg."

He nodded and gave her a small smile. His instinct told him that she was being sincere and for Wilson's sake he hoped she was. He would give her the benefit of the doubt, for now. The senior Mr. Wilson approached House and he was prepared to shake his hand when the gregarious man ignored it and gave him a bear hug instead.

"Mazel Tov, Greg," he told him. House stiffened in the embrace but forced himself to relax. This man had helped raise the man he loved—not perfectly, but a hell of a lot better than his own had.

"Thanks," the diagnostician told him, sighing silently with relief when the other man let him go.

House left him to join his…spouse. He had to shake his head and wonder if that was actually real. He was a married man…to another man. To Wilson. _His_ Wilson. He had to laugh at himself at how ridiculous it all seemed compared to his life in the past. It amazed him how small choices and actions could have such enormous consequences. He was glad he'd made the right ones in this case.

Wilson was being congratulated by Cuddy who carried Rachel in her arms. The toddler shyly hid her face in the crook of her mother's neck when the oncologist went to 'steal her nose' from her.

"Hey, Spawn," the diagnostician said to the little girl, earning a glare from her mother. Cuddy's eyes smiled, however. Rachel turned her head ever so slightly to peek at him.

"Congratulations, Greg," she said to him fondly and then gave him a hug which was tricky with Spawn Two getting in the way.

"Thank you, Lisa," he murmured. They locked gazes for a moment; simultaneously Cuddy and House began to chuckle and she walked away.

He looked at Wilson and rolled his eyes, earning an amused chuckle in response. House wrapped an arm around his lover and pulled him into an embrace, kissing him tenderly and receiving the same as Wilson wrapped his arms around him. Neither wanted to pull apart but at last they did.

"I love you," House whispered, his blues eyes meeting Wilson's brown ones.

"I love you too," the oncologist returned.

"Does this make me Jewish?" House asked, smirking. He earned a thoughtful look from his spouse.

"Are you willing to be circumcised?" the younger man asked, raising an eyebrow. House's eyes widened slightly.

"It's a damned good thing I'm an atheist," was the answer as he leaned in to whisper it into the oncologist's ears, his lips caressing Wilson's ear, sending shivers down his spine. House mouthed his earlobe, sucking on it lightly before pulling back.

"Keep that up and we'll be skipping the party," the younger man said huskily, his eyes partially closed.

"You promise?" House responded, smiling slyly and wagging his eyebrows. Before Wilson could answer he felt a tug on the hem of his suit jacket. He looked down at Kenny, who'd been watching them with a goofy smile on his face.

"Are we going to go with everybody else to the party now?" he asked impatiently.

"Yes," the oncologist told him, receiving a spiteful glare from the diagnostician. "But first we have to have the picture taken."

"No we don't," House argued. He hated having his picture taken, always had. In school he'd been sure to skip or make goofy faces at the camera, disappointing his mom and angering his dad when the pictures came back. He hated to have his picture taken for his hospital security I.D. once a year. Even candids taken by amateurs with their digital pocket cameras annoyed him to no end. He never looked good in a picture and felt like a fool while they were being taken. 'Smile cheese for the camera' had always been code for 'duck and cover' as far as he was concerned.

However, this was very important to Wilson and it was his day too. Damnit!

"Yes, we do," the oncologist told him firmly. House said nothing more but sighed. What he wasn't willing to endure for that man!

The photographer took a few shots of the doctors alone.

Kenny, who had been waiting with Blythe off to the side, was called over by Wilson. The child grinned and ran over to his foster parents.

"Now are we going to the party?" Kenny asked in exasperation.

"Nope," House told him with a shake of his head. "If I have to be humiliated so do you."

The photographer posed the three gentlemen and took two more shots.

"Thank goodness it's over," House muttered with a frown. He looked down at Kenny and took the boy's hand. "_Now_ we're going to the party," he told him.

With hands linked the three gentlemen headed towards Wilson's car together.

**~*fin*~**


End file.
